


A Thread of Fate

by Disenchantress



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Antivan Crows, Arranged Marriage, Assassins, F/M, Grey Wardens, Implied/Referenced Torture, King Alistair, Night Terrors, Non-Warden Cousland - Freeform, POV Alistair, POV Alternating, POV Cousland, Palace Intrigue, Panic Attacks, Past Torture, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Revenge, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-05
Updated: 2019-02-09
Packaged: 2019-05-02 09:30:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 29
Words: 106,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14541747
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Disenchantress/pseuds/Disenchantress
Summary: Duncan found his recruit outside Orzammar and never returned to Highever Castle for Nalissa Cousland. When the castle fell, she escaped with her life but was eventually captured by Rendon Howe and held in Fort Drakon, a last ace up his sleeve to give his claim to Highever legitimacy if Loghain failed. And fail he did; Sereda Aeducan saw to that by making Alistair the King of Ferelden. Now, a year into the new king's reign, Eamon attempts to arrange a match for Alistair with the sister of Ferelden's only remaining teyrn. As with all things in Alistair's life, it couldn't be more disastrous or more incredible.Rated M for language and PTSD!Cousland. Mind the tags! Sensitive chapters carry trigger warnings. Updates on Fridays (usually).





	1. Looming Shadows

**Author's Note:**

> For all sad words of tongue or pen,  
> The saddest are these: 'It might have been!'  
> -John Greenleaf Whittier

The stories say that Maric the Savior and Rowan the Fair were promised to each other as children, but that it took ending the Rebellion together to make them fall in love. But stories say a lot of things. According to official records, after all, King Maric had only one son until about a year ago.

Yet here I stand, Alistair Theirin, tenth ruler of Calenhad’s line—or eleventh if you count the Rebel Queen, which most of Ferelden does. Officially, I never existed until after my half-brother, King Cailan, was betrayed to his death. It was only then that the powers that be—in this case my not-quite-uncle Eamon Guerrin—decided keeping Calenhad’s bloodline on the throne was more important than, say, a king who actually wanted to rule.

And still, I don’t really feel like a king. I was a Grey Warden until the end of the Fifth Blight, and most days, I wish I was still. It’s not something that’s done, quitting the Wardens, and especially not for a political seat, but thanks for that lies at the grave of Sereda Aeducan.

Why she was so insistent I must lead Ferelden I cannot say, but even I have to admit that if anyone should have known whether I would fall on my face as king, it would have been Sereda. After all, her family had ruled Orzammar for generations, and though she was sometimes critical of my particular brand of humor, she was always stubbornly and frustratingly on _the right side_. Even when it had cost her her life for the Archdemon’s.

During the Blight, Sereda had become something of an older sister I had never particularly wanted, but still a right sight better than the one I actually had. Strangely, or maybe not so strangely at all, it’s her opinion I most wish I could ask about Eamon’s latest plans.

Because a good king, says my not-uncle Eamon, must marry and produce an heir. Not that this is the first time he’s said that—he did once try to convince me to rule jointly with my dead half-brother’s widow until I had her locked away in a tower for safekeeping—but unfortunately, this time it looks as though arrangements are actually being made.

The girl is the younger sister of the teyrn of Highever, and that’s mostly all that I know. Well, that and that she was a prisoner of war in Fort Drakon under Teyrn Loghain and Arl Howe, which seems like exactly the sort of topic I should avoid when I meet her tonight.

Someone knocks at the door of my chambers and I sigh heavily. I already know who is waiting when I tell him to come in.

Eamon hasn’t changed much since I was a boy, aside from all the gray hair. He still fixes me with the same patient look he’s always used when he knows I won’t like what he’s about to say.

“The Couslands will be arriving soon,” he advises. That is what advisors do, after all.

“Are you absolutely certain this isn’t a terrible idea?” I ask for what feels like the hundredth time.

Eamon chooses to ignore the question as he has the last dozen or so times I’ve asked it. “Their parents were murdered by Rendon Howe, so do be careful not to bring him up in conversation.”

“Why in the world would I—”

"And from what I understand, she still doesn’t remember much of her time in Fort Drakon, so it is probably best to avoid that subject as well.”

“Well, if I can’t talk about her family’s murderer or her imprisonment and likely torture, whatever shall be the topic of dinner conversation?” I ask sarcastically.

Eamon shoots me a sharp, reproving look. “I am given to believe she is a rather accomplished duelist with two blades and somewhat uniquely interested in the Grey Wardens, for a lady of breeding. I should think there would be many things you could say that would interest her.”

Well, that… does surprise me. Eamon must read it on my face, because he sighs and explains, “The only reason I’ve waited so long to suggest this is that I wanted to be sure Lady Cousland had recovered from her ordeal. I do know you, Alistair. If there is any lady in the Fereldan court likely to be the kind of match you desire, it is Nalissa Cousland.”

“Who said I desire a match?” I mutter, the best argument I can come up with feeling feeble even to me.

“You desire _something_ ,” Eamon says, finally letting his exasperation seep into his voice as he puts a hand on my shoulder. “You have become a shadow of yourself since the Blight ended and your companions departed. Is there anyone left you speak to at all? As Alistair, not as the king?”

“Teagan?” I offer hopefully, but somehow I doubt the arl’s brother will get me out of this.

“Ah yes,” Eamon muses, giving me a weighty look. “Do refrain from mentioning this to Teagan just yet. He did have… a bit of an affection for the girl, before Highever fell. A one-sided affection to be sure, but best not to poke at things, yes?”

I arch an eyebrow. “Just how old is this Lady Cousland?”

“Just younger than you. She came of age around four winters ago. Her father fought with yours in the Rebellion.”

“My father,” I murmur, my thoughts returning to Maric the Savior and Rowan the Fair. I nearly ask Eamon about the stories I’ve heard of them, but in the end, I don’t. Queen Rowan was his sister, after all.

Yet it seems he guesses the direction of my thoughts anyway. “King Maric and my sister were an arranged match too,” he says, and I look back to him with interest. “They were a beloved King and Queen. The entire country mourned with her passing, but none more than him.”

That’s saying a lot, coming from her brother. Tentatively, I ask the question I really want to know the answer to: “They… really loved each other?”

Eamon smiles. “Rowan once described it to me as love at first sight.” Apparently satisfied he has made his point, he turns to leave, but looks back at me from the door and bows slightly, all professionalism again. “You should get dressed for dinner, Your Majesty.”

* * *

The chill winds of Highever in early spring have given way to the heavy, wet air of eastern Thedas, and at last I give up and pull off my cloak forlornly. Fergus is watching me—he’s _always_ watching me these days, and it drives me half mad. I know it’s only because he worries about me, but I worry more than enough for the both of us now.

“I don’t like this, Fergus,” I complain for what must be the hundredth time. And for what must be the hundredth time, my brother graces me with a long-suffering sigh and an exceptionally tired look in his eyes. I try not to think how much he looks like Father when he does that.

“Lissa, this will be good for you,” Fergus promises me yet again.

“How in Andraste’s name could _this_ possibly be good for me?” I demand, waving a hand around to indicate the coach, the Fereldan plains, the looming skyline of Denerim on the horizon, all of it.

“How is staying in Highever and jumping at ghosts good for you?” Fergus asks, and though his voice is gentle, he might as well have slapped me with the words.

I glare out the window to hide the tears in my eyes, though there’s no way he doesn’t see. I’ve never wanted to cry so much in my life, and it’s so _fucking frustrating_. “You weren’t there,” I growl through my teeth.

“I know I wasn’t,” Fergus says softly, putting his hand on my arm. “And I’m so sorry you were. But you’ll never put it behind you if you keep walking the same paths you did that night and finding attackers in every shadow.”

My eyes burn, but I stubbornly blink the tears away. I will not show weakness to this bastard king, if this meeting is truly happening. And it seems now that it must, as Denerim’s gates come into view ahead of us. I become very aware of my breathing and with careful practice, keep it even. I do not look up, but I know the shadow of Fort Drakon hangs over the city like a headsman’s axe.

Trying to distract myself, I clear my throat and ask, “What is he like, then, this new king?”

“It’s still rather early to know what kind of king he will be,” Fergus hedges, “but I’m told he is a good man. He trained as a templar, and then as a Grey Warden, and he rallied an army against the Archdemon.” He hesitates, then leans toward me with his elbows on his knees, watching me intently. “He’s also the one that put Rendon Howe to the sword.”

I stiffen and for a moment, the coach is gone. I am suspended by manacled wrists in the darkness, cold stone pressing into my knees, my back licked with tongues of fire as a lash rips it open—seventeen, eighteen, until I lose count—and then the pressure of fingers, bruisingly hard, on my chin—a face in shadow except for a cruel smirk—

Dead. He is dead, I remind myself, and I am alive.  _I_ was the victor. I remember my breathing again, find that it has become much too fast, and work to still it. Then I see my hands, clenched into fists, my fingernails tearing at the fabric of my skirt, and I release them shakily, smoothing the scratches from the silk as I let go. I am not weak, I am nothing that he said of me, and I will not appear to be.

Fergus, of course, has noticed, watching me as closely as he was, but he seems pleased by my restraint. Still, I do not meet his eyes. I only exhale sharply and say, as simply and evenly as I can, “Good.”

We stop at the gates of the city, just long enough for the driver to speak with the guards. Once more, I gather my reasons for protest, ready for one final attempt to talk my brother out of this. He is ready for me.

“Lissa,” Fergus says in what I’m sure he thinks is an encouraging tone, “this is what Mother would have wanted.”

I swallow back the anger and the pain and the pride, and shove them all down until I can feel nothing. Nothing is safe. It allows me to play my role. And so as the coachman comes to open the door and guide me out of the carriage, I smile a thank you.

It’s all lies, every bit of it, but Fergus looks comforted I’m so convincing. Good. He’s a terrible liar, my brother, and I need there to be pride in his eyes instead of worry as I meet the man who wishes to fit me with gilded shackles instead of steel ones.


	2. Shattering Illusions

Whatever I had expected of Lady Cousland, it wasn’t the woman that alights from the carriage outside the castle. Her dark hair is twisted into a low bun at the back of her neck, accented with a few small braids in the fashion I’ve seen among other noblewomen. It shows off her cheekbones and the proud tilt of her chin, but by far her most striking feature is a set of blue-green eyes that just match the waters of the Waking Sea. The polite smile on her lips doesn’t quite reach them.

Nonetheless, I can see why Teagan might have shown her interest. She’s beautiful in a deep blue silk gown with a low, Antivan-style neckline, it’s impossible to think otherwise. But for all that she looks soft and demure, I can see hardness in her gaze.

She bows with a practiced elegance, which I find interesting considering there are very few people to which etiquette would require a lady of her standing to bow—just myself and her brother now, I suppose. As she does, I notice, those bright eyes still watch me through her eyelashes.

Not something I can hold against her. In her situation, I’d probably have demanded a weapon before agreeing to meet any more strange noblemen for the first time, if I could even be considered a nobleman.

… Wait, _could_ she be armed?

“Your Majesty,” Eamon says from the step just below me, startling me from my thoughts. “May I present Teyrn Fergus Cousland and the Lady Nalissa Cousland of Highever.”

The appropriate pleasantries are exchanged, mine still a little haltingly because I’ll never get used to all these rules. Eventually, Eamon escorts us to the dining room, where I busy myself trying to remember which silverware I’m meant to use. I glance up at the Couslands, the teyrn seated to my right and his sister to my left, to see they’re having no such trouble and I’ve in fact picked up the wrong one. Lady Cousland pretends not to notice, or maybe she really doesn’t care. The teyrn, on the other hand, is staring quizzically as I hold a tea spoon hovering over my soup.

Maker help me, but I was not meant for this.

Eamon makes some excuse about changing the place settings at the last minute, which the teyrn gracefully pretends isn’t complete drivel, and I switch utensils and joke, “That’s it—next decree, no more than one type of spoon allowed at a dinner table lest the king make a complete fool of himself.”

Unless my ears deceive me, Lady Cousland stifles a chuckle into her soup. I shoot an appreciative smile in her direction, but she seems to be carefully contemplating the arrangement of carrots in her bowl and doesn’t notice.

Apparently eager to steer the conversation away from social gaffes, Teyrn Cousland says, “It has been a while, Your Majesty, but it’s good to see your sense of humor wasn’t one of the casualties at Ostagar.”

“No, much as Eamon probably would have liked that,” I agree with a grin. At a stern look from the regent in question, I clear my throat and try to will myself into proper decorum. It’s exactly as difficult as it sounds. “That is, we were both lucky to make it out alive, Teyrn Cousland.”

“Yes, well, your escape was rather more eventful than mine,” the teyrn allows. “If half the stories are true, there was a shapeshifting swamp witch involved.”

I chuckle without much real amusement. “If half the stories are true, I ripped the horns off the ogre that killed my brother and stabbed it through the heart with them.”

“Actually, most people say you stabbed it through the skull with King Maric’s dragonbone blade.”

Surprised, I look up to find Lady Cousland was the one who spoke, and she is still watching me intently. She doesn’t blink, and I find myself suddenly nervous. “Ah well… yes, that one’s true. It was a lot less dramatic than it sounds, though.”

Still she doesn’t look away, though her voice remains light as she adds, “They also say you stabbed it through Rendon Howe’s heart.”

Complete silence descends over the table. Teyrn Cousland freezes with his fork halfway to his mouth. Eamon looks quickly between the Couslands, but only his eyes move. Lady Cousland still isn’t blinking, and the unwavering attention of those bright sea-green eyes is beginning to give me chills.

“I, ah… ahem. Is… is that proper dinner protocol?” I try to evade. Her eyes narrow just a little and her knuckles turn white on her dinner knife. Clearly, this is not the answer she wants, and no one seems to be coming to my rescue.

But there is something else in her intense gaze now, and it rather reminds me of the look Leliana had worn when we confronted Marjolaine. She isn’t looking for decorum in my reply; she’s looking to hear the man that caused her suffering met his own. I evaluate the tenseness of her jaw drawing the soft angles of her face into sharpness and decide she certainly doesn’t _look_ too frail to handle the details. So I say slowly, “Not through the heart, no. Through the middle. It was not quick, and he bled out on the dungeon floor.”

Lady Cousland nods once, a slow, almost appreciative motion, and almost whispers, “Good.” Then she finally blinks and her demeanor softens instantly with an apologetic smile. “Forgive me my gracelessness, Your Majesty. My brother often says I am too interested in combat mechanics for a lady.”

The moment broken, Fergus laughs and teases his sister, and Eamon takes a bite of sole as if nothing happened. I try to go back to my dinner too, but I find it suddenly tasteless.

Sweet Maker, I’ve met blood mages that couldn’t freeze a room in place like that.

* * *

This King Alistair is… not what I had expected. I watch him trade easy banter with Arl Eamon but stumble over pleasantries with Fergus, and I wonder if he trusts us no more than I trust him. He completely lacks the confidence befitting a ruler, and seems to try to make it up with increasingly awkward jokes. It’s actually almost endearing.

I want him to be aloof or cruel, the easier to hate him and talk Fergus out of this, but I can scarcely imagine anyone _less_ calculating. I suppose he wasn’t raised away from nobility for nothing.

And he isn’t bad to look at either, this bastard king. He favors his half-brother, but with slightly sharper angles to his jaw and chin, and a build that speaks to actually using a sword in battle instead of just training arenas. He has dark blond hair with a tinge of red that he still wears short like a soldier, as if he hasn’t quite noticed he now sits on the throne of Ferelden, and soft brown eyes. He also has an easy smile, and it’s that last bit that I have trouble with. How he can smile so freely after everything he must have seen during the Fifth Blight escapes me, yet it suits him well.

I shudder at the memory of the Blight, and he notices. He pretends not to as I catch him looking, but a moment later calls for wood to be added to the fire, and I just stop myself from laughing again. He knows nothing of Highever if he believes I could find Denerim cold.

It’s a thoughtful gesture, to be sure, but perhaps a deliberate one. I’m not willing to trust that this man’s ill ease and good humor are anything less than an elaborate act.

Still, I relax my left hand from where it had been resting against the comforting shape of the dagger strapped to my thigh under this dress. If he’s going to such lengths to present himself as kind and generous, I shouldn’t need it tonight.

Fergus chuckles and I realize I’m not paying attention to the conversation. He’s telling the story of my Mabari stealing the longsword of a visiting Bann and running madly through the castle with it. “It took half the garrison to chase him down,” he concludes. “The knights called him Ser Dante for weeks.”

I smile at the memory, though it feels like it’s from a lifetime ago. The king laughs and says, “Perhaps you should have made him a general, with the ability to unite your men like that!”

Fergus grins and looks over at me, and I know which story he’s going to tell next. I shoot him _a look_ , but he isn’t dissuaded, and I groan.

“No, Lissa’s the general. Once, when she was about twelve—”

“Nine,” I interrupt, pinching the bridge of my nose. “I was _nine_ , and this story hasn’t been funny in ten years, Fergus.”

Of course, he tells it anyway, starting with how Mother had taken my daggers away as punishment for sneaking into the training arena to spar with the squires. “Mother locked them away in the armory,” Fergus says, “where of course they were bound to be safe. There were always at least two members of the garrison guarding the armory, and none of the knights would dare disobey the teyrna. The _squires_ , on the other hand…”

Laughing, he paints a very vivid picture of little nine-year-old me rounding up a legion of tiny eight-to-ten-year-old squires to accost the armory guards in waves with wooden practice swords until the knights were too busy dying of laughter to stop us.

It’s a cute enough story, and from the corner of my eye, I can see the king trying, presumably for my sake, not to join in the laughter as I stare Fergus down resentfully. _Cute_ is the last thing I need this man to think of me, I fume in silence.

With dinner finished, Arl Eamon suggests a walk, and we follow him to a small garden off the dining hall. It appears to be where the staff grow vegetables and herbs, and I pause to admire the fountain in the middle while a servant hands out glasses of wine off a tray. I sip it and stare into the water and think how much I miss the smell of the Waking Sea.

“Don’t worry,” a voice says over my left shoulder, and I startle a little but manage not to drop the glass. The king has approached to stand next to me, wearing a sheepish sort of smile. “Eamon has plenty of stories of crazy things I did as a boy in Redcliffe. He’s just too polite to share them.”

I manage a dry chuckle. “How lucky for me that Fergus has no such qualms.”

“I could always tell you one myself,” the king offers, looking around conspiratorially. “As long as you promise not to let it get out. Too many people would believe every word, you see.”

Despite myself, I can’t suppress a smile, so I turn my gaze back to the fountain in effort to hide it. He is either extremely committed to this act, I decide, or he genuinely enjoys making jokes at his own expense. It’s oddly charming.

“Perhaps another time,” I say. “I wouldn’t want the regent to think I’m collecting dirt on the king, after all.”

That slow, easy smile curls the king’s lips again and I think that maybe he just really is that easy to amuse.

 _Crack!_ A whip sounds from nowhere and I brace myself reflexively, waiting for the bite of the lash. Someone shouts, but I don’t understand the words for my heartbeat pounding in my ears. For a moment, one terrifying moment, the stars reflected in the fountain are flickering torchlight and I am nearly fracturing my wrists in trying to pull them free before the next strike lands.

Someone touches my right hand, and I react without thinking, reaching for the dagger hidden in my skirts. Before I can touch it, another hand grips my left arm, and Fergus says my name soothingly. I realize the king is looking at me with concern, that there is fear in my eyes that he has definitely seen, and I push it away as quickly as I am able. The ritual is the same as before—focus on breathing first to appear calm, unclench my hands—

I realize suddenly that while Fergus grabbed my left arm to keep me from lashing out, it is the king that holds my right wrist, his grip firm but gentle. And he looks so anxious because I’ve shattered the wine glass in my fist, embedding shards like tiny daggers in my palm.

The king calls for a healer and produces a handkerchief to staunch the blood. My hand shakes as he pulls out the shards large enough to see and I wince when he applies pressure, certain it’s actually pushing glass in deeper. His hands are steady though, as if he’s patched up far worse wounds, which I suppose he probably has.

“Are you alright?” he asks earnestly, his eyes locking onto mine, and I try not to let my frustration show.

 _Andraste's flaming sword_ , not even three hours and already I’ve given him a chance to see the chinks in my armor.


	3. Impressions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, so I'll just give it to you mid-week instead of making it a weekend update. :)

“Here, sit down,” I tell Lady Cousland, and the teyrn helps me pull her down to sit on the stone edge of the fountain. Her already pale skin has turned ashen and I worry she might faint, though I’m not convinced that’s from the wound on her hand.

“I’m fine,” she says with a tight smile that doesn’t fool me in the slightest. From the look on her brother’s face, I don’t think he’s convinced either.

“Lissa, you must be more careful,” Fergus says quietly. Probably so quietly he thinks I can’t hear, but my ears weren’t a casualty of war either, and I frown.

“Something startled her, that isn’t her fault.”

“I'm perfectly capable of defending myself, thank you, sire,” Lady Cousland says, firmly but politely. “And honestly Fergus, I’m fine. It was just an accident.”

Eamon returns with the healer Venya, and I move out of the way to give her room to work. Lady Cousland smiles politely and assures the elven woman that she’s had far worse wounds and will certainly be fine.

Something about that gets me thinking. Whatever she said to the contrary, she hadn’t _just_ gripped the glass too hard. There had been real fear in her eyes when I first looked at her, and she hadn’t seemed to even notice the blood immediately. Like something else was more painful.

Hadn’t Eamon said she didn’t remember what had happened to her in Fort Drakon? I watch Lady Cousland carefully, but as Venya employs a pair of tiny pincers to remove glass shards from her palm, the teyrn’s sister remains perfectly composed. Frowning, I try to remember what happened right before she shattered the glass.

It’s still bizarre, as I try to puzzle it out; I thought she had finally been letting her guard down a little, smiling at my self-deprecating humor and joking back. She had said she didn’t want Eamon thinking she was digging for dirt on me, but she was still smiling as she said it, so I’m pretty sure that wasn’t it. I hadn’t had a chance to say anything else, and I hadn’t seen anything she might have reacted to.

 _Alistair, you idiot._ I hadn’t seen anything, but I had _heard_ something. The stable is just on the other side of the garden wall, and just before the glass shattered, someone had cracked a whip.

The implication of that makes me feel that perhaps I shouldn’t have eaten so much at dinner. I look back at Lady Cousland, smiling as she thanks the healer for the poultice and bandages and demonstrates that she can still use her hand properly, and suddenly I notice that the neckline of her dress is not nearly as low in the back as it is in the front.

I consider speaking to her brother, or perhaps to Eamon, to confirm my suspicions, but decide against it. I tell myself it’s because they might not know, but that isn’t it. If she really doesn’t remember except during that moment, I won’t have them asking and reminding her.

I do, however, make a mental note to inform the stablemaster of a new prohibition on whips within the palace gates tomorrow. I’ll simply have headaches from sensing darkspawn far beneath us or some such while the Couslands are staying in Denerim.

“Well,” Eamon says as Venya bows politely and takes her leave, “I dare say that’s enough excitement for one night! Shall I have a maidservant show you to your rooms?”

“It would be appreciated,” Teyrn Cousland answers. “It was a long trip from Highever.”

Eamon summons a freckled young girl named Maude and sends the Couslands off in her care. I wait in the garden as they leave, staring up at the sky and thinking.

“Well, she is stronger than she looks, isn’t she?” Eamon asks cheerfully, once they’re out of earshot.

I bite back the comment that I guess him to be more right than he realizes and say simply, “She is… definitely something.”

“It seems she shares your penchant for humor over etiquette,” Eamon goes on to say with a smile. “I wasn’t expecting that.”

“Because of her background?”

“Because of her parents. But I should have remembered I only knew Bryce and Eleanor once they had settled into the teyrnir. Their daughter may be more like their younger selves. From what I understand, Eleanor learned to walk on the deck of a warship and Bryce stole the spotlight at your own father’s coronation to propose to her.”

“If only someone had thought to do that at mine,” I murmur. “Would have taken some of the pressure off.”

Eamon ignores my off-topic comment, as he usually does, and gives me one of those looks that makes me feel ten years old again. “If she is anything like her parents, Nalissa Cousland would make a fine queen. But what did you think of her?”

I hesitate, not entirely sure what I’m going to say until I speak. “I think she’s trying very hard to be who she thinks she’s supposed to be.” And though I don’t say it, I think I may have glimpsed who she really is under that, and I want to know if I’m right.

Eamon smiles. “That sounds like someone else I know.”

“Mm,” I consider this out loud. “Well, the difference is, so far she’s much better at it than I am.”

* * *

Highever possesses no estate in Denerim, so the king and regent have granted Fergus and I suites within the palace for use during our stay. Three weeks is a long time to be away from home, but my rooms have a comfortable-looking canopy bed and a balcony with a view of the ocean. I can’t decide if that makes me feel better or more homesick. Dante, at least, seems happily oblivious now that he’s back at my side.

Fergus knocks on my door and I sigh. I know it’s him because of course it is, and I consider pretending to be asleep just so I don’t have to talk about tonight until the morning. But Fergus knows me, and he would know it was a lie, so I scratch Dante’s ears for comfort and open the door.

My brother is not pleased. He has that “I’m the teyrn so everything should go as I plan it” face on. But he shuts and locks the door before he asks me to “explain myself,” like he thinks he’s Mother or something.

“Explain _what_?” I attempt to evade. “I think you can figure out what happened. You have a good enough imagination.”

“Nalissa,” he says impatiently. Ugh, the full first name. He’s serious.

I sigh and rub my wrist, trying to warm away the ghost of a manacle that’s no longer there. “I forgot where I was, for a moment. He touched my wrist, I panicked and went for the dagger. It won’t happen again.”

“I told you you shouldn’t carry those things in your state!” Fergus argues, but I shut that down quickly.

“And I told you I will _not_ be back in this city, staying under the roof of some man I don’t know, without a weapon. I won’t do it, Fergus.”

My brother sighs exasperatedly. “That man is the King of Ferelden!”

“And the man that locked me in Fort Drakon was the Arl of Amaranthine,” I snap. “This is not negotiable. I will not be helpless, not here, not within sight of that _place_. Tell me I must and I will leave.”

Fergus quiets and then nods. “Alright, I understand.”

I don’t mean to smirk, but my lips curl viciously before I can control it. “Trust me, you don’t and you never will.”

“I empathize, then,” he amends. “But Lissa, you’re never helpless. I would have had to stop you just the same if you’d had no weapon to reach for. The king wouldn’t have known what hit him.”

After a moment’s consideration, I turn and look out the window rather than at Fergus. “This king is unusual.”

“That’s one way to put it.” He moves to stand at my right elbow. I realize I’m picking at the bandages on my right hand and stop immediately. Fergus’ voice is pensive as he says, “He made you laugh, though. I hadn’t realized how long it’s been since I’ve heard that until you did it.”

I scoff and deny. “I didn’t laugh.”

For once, Fergus breaks his teyrn act and really smiles at me. Like the proud teacher and the worried older brother and the broken man that’s lost his wife and son already, all at once.

“You laughed, Lissa. This could be good for you.”

I look at him closely, and instead of saying what I think, I hug him and keep it to myself. Hold it in, like so many other things I haven’t had the heart to tell him and admit only to myself.

Because I’m very aware, if I misjudge or misstep, this could also be a very bad thing.


	4. A Challenge

The next morning passes just as most mornings do since becoming king: full of reports on troop movements, requests for updates from the Grey Wardens that go unanswered, and noblemen trying to drag me into their petty squabbles. It’s a relief when the afternoon comes and I can escape to the training grounds.

It’s the last thing that makes me feel like a Warden, being able to draw my sword and practice. I try not to consider that the likelihood I’ll ever actually use it in battle again is only slightly greater than the chances of Eamon shaving his beard, painting his face, and delivering an aria in the throne room.

As I approach, I think I haven’t timed my entrance correctly. The knights are usually long finished running their drills by this time of day, but today there’s still a circle around the sparring arena as I come onto the field. No one seems to notice my arrival either and after a moment, I realize why.

The Couslands, of course, are the cause of the hubbub. The teyrn is in the arena, sparring one of the knights, Ser Chandrell. She’s an excellent fighter but also a firebrand, which he appears to be taking advantage of via goading her relentlessly into making mistakes.

A few eyes have turned from the fight toward Lady Cousland, who appears to be paying it no mind at all for someone supposedly interested in combat. She’s sitting on a half wall seemingly engrossed in a book, but with her hair loose and shrouding half her face from view, she’s providing an excellent contrast from the battle for young squires interested in such things. I notice that the dress she wears today is simpler, lavender in color with cut-outs on the shoulders that makes it look vaguely elven and a high neckline that does nothing to lessen my suspicions from the day before.

I’ve just reached the edge of the crowd when Teyrn Cousland lands a glancing blow to Ser Chandrell’s shoulder with the flat of his blade, just enough to throw her off balance. As she overcompensates onto that heel, he follows up with a strike from the other side that stops just short of her throat. Her face is flushed with frustration and embarrassment, but she drops her sword and bobs her head toward him in defeat.

“Good show, ser knight,” the teyrn says with a smile.

“Thank you, your lordship,” says Ser Chandrell. I wonder if anyone else can hear the resentment in her voice.

“If Chandrell can’t beat him, I’m out,” says a knight to my left. Someone else agrees with him and the circle starts to break away.

Then Teyrn Cousland spots me and greets me with a slight bow. He notices my sword and asks if I might care for a sparring partner. I tell him it’s been a while since I’ve practiced against more than a training dummy, but the knights have regained interest and my excuse falls flat. Finally I relent with a muttering of, “Well, it has been a while since I’ve embarrassed myself in front of my subjects…”

As I enter the arena, I take a deep breath and try not to notice everyone looking at me. Even Lady Cousland seems to have decided this should be more interesting than whatever she’s reading, because she is now leaning forward to watch with the book in her lap. I try not to remember that the last time I sparred in a training arena, I placed seventh in a tournament as a templar recruit. This is exactly why I usually wait until the training grounds are empty, I have time to think before the match begins.

The teyrn takes an immediate offensive, lunging forward and testing my guard. I parry clumsily at first and he smirks, pressing his advantage with a series of swift strikes. I’m rusty but not slow, and on the third parry I counter, forcing him to backstep.

Before I know it, it feels like no time has passed since I was fighting beside Sereda or leaping in to disengage close combat fighters from Leliana or Wynne. I think it starts to show, either on my face or in my sword, because the teyrn’s face tightens. So, I notice, do his movements; he becomes more wooden the harder I press. He’s excellent on the offensive, I realize, but when he’s the one under pressure, he struggles to think quickly and move quickly at the same time.

Finally, I finish off a combination with a feint left and step right, and he doesn’t shift his guard fast enough. It almost feels like a real victory when I pull my sword to a stop a half inch from his ribcage.

A wild whoop cuts the air and suddenly the knights are cheering. I’m sure I’ve turned bright red, because I had completely forgotten there was anyone watching. Am I crazy, or is the crowd even bigger than it was before?

Teyrn Cousland bows gracefully in defeat but Lady Cousland is frowning as she stands, tapping her book against her chin. I find myself the recipient of compliments from everyone else, though I think I miss when I wasn’t a king and people weren’t afraid to clap me on the shoulder or tell me how I could have done better.

Lady Cousland, apparently, is not above doing so for her brother. As the knights file out of the training area at last, she crosses her arms and fixes the teyrn with a mildly disappointed look that somehow makes her seem like the older sibling. “You _completely_ missed his tell!” she berates him. “And as soon as he put you on the defensive, you totally forgot his disadvantage too!”

I stare confusion at the teyrn, who grins and stage-whispers, “I did tell you, remember? _The general_.”

He receives a withering glare for his comment. “I swear, Fergus, if you call me that one more time…”

“Yes, I know, death and maiming,” Teyrn Cousland says good-naturedly, but then he raises his eyebrows at her, still smiling, and challenges, “Are you saying you could have done better?”

Lady Cousland purses her lips, and her glare does not relent. I look between them for a moment, cautious not to get caught up in a family squabble, but I am very curious. “Would either of you mind telling _me_ what this disadvantage of mine is?” I ask hopefully.

Teyrn Cousland smirks in response, flips his blade, and offers it hilt-first to his sister. “You show him, if you’re so confident. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you lose.”

“Oh no, that’s quite alright,” I insist. “Her hand’s still all bandaged up and everything.”

“She’s ambidextrous,” the teyrn counters, and somehow manages to get his eyebrows even higher. “What do you say, little sister?”

“Fine,” Lady Cousland relents, shoving her book at her brother and taking his sword. “I’ll fight _left-handed_. With a _sword_. In a _dress_. All things I do regularly, of course, just to appease you.”

I stammer again that it isn’t necessary, but already the teyrn has stepped out of the circle and the lady has taken his place, lifting the sword and taking a few practice swings with it to get a feel for the weight. After a moment, she looks satisfied, and the challenge in her eyes makes me inexplicably nervous.

This is _not_ how I had expected my afternoon to go.

* * *

As I raise Fergus’ sword, I wonder if he planned this. I’ve never actually lost a first fight against anyone, primarily because every last one of them underestimates me until it’s too late.

I observe the king silently again, confirming he hasn’t yet corrected what I observed. Still he holds his left arm out awkwardly, the part of his brain accustomed to fighting with a sword and shield not registering properly that the latter is not being used. It makes his left side just a fraction of a second slower. It will be harder to exploit fighting with my left, but not impossible. I look from his sword to the expression in his eyes, see the hesitation, and decide this will be over in thirty seconds.

It takes twenty-seven, once he finally moves. Unlike my brother, I prefer not to be the first to strike in a match. Perhaps it’s in reaction to his style of combat. My preferred tactic in real fights is to skirt the edges of a battle and pick off the most vulnerable—archers, mages, overconfident commanders hiding behind their men. But in duels, it’s different; it’s about defying expectations, being nowhere I’m expected to be but everywhere I should. Uncomfortable though it is, the blighted dress works in my favor here.

At first, I only deflect blows. It’s like a dance, fighting one-on-one, and I wait for my chance to lead. The king overreaches and I counter, blade dancing toward his weak side, and he reacts as I expect. His left arm flinches forward for just a split second, itching to bring the weight of a shield to bear against me, before forcing a backstep to evade. I thrust again, leading toward the same shoulder, and he swings to block me. It’s almost too easy to reverse my strike and knock his blade out of the way.

He doesn’t quite drop it as I was aiming for, but he is mid-step and staggers in surprise, and that’s all I need. Instead of advancing like most swordsmen would, I sweep his leg out from under him, stepping to the side to dodge the last-ditch thrust toward my middle meant to keep me from advancing. He tries to swing toward me, but my blade is already at his throat, and I smile.

“Too late, sire. No direction behind a counter if you’ve lost your head.”

Maker, if he isn’t blushing again. It’s a small wonder anyone can take him seriously.

“Well, thank you for waiting until no one was around to watch that,” the king says awkwardly. I chuckle, switch Fergus’ sword carefully to my right hand, and offer him my left. He takes it and lets me help him to his feet.

“Not that I should be surprised, but did you really have to go and emasculate us both?” Fergus jokes as he retrieves his sword.

I narrow my eyes at him. “As if that wasn’t your intent.”

He gives me a half smile that tells me yes, in fact it was, and I realize. He’s been playing the game we used on visiting knights when we were children, supposedly setting me up to fail just so we could laugh when I demonstrated I was much less powerless than I appeared. I can’t imagine what he’s thinking—as if that could possibly be a positive impression to make on a king.

The king, meanwhile, is watching us both with a look of confusion. “Soo… is anyone going to tell me what it is you saw that got me knocked in the dirt?”

“Apologies, Your Majesty,” I begin, but he holds up a hand to forestall me, a rather sheepish grin on his face.

“You just knocked me flat on my back and crushed what little dignity I gained beating your brother. I think at this point, you can call me Alistair.”

I hesitate, not sure whether it's more improper to refuse his request or break proper etiquette. I settle for not precisely doing either. “As you say.”

The king flashes another of those easy smiles and says, “Maybe you’ll grant me a rematch, and a chance for the right to do the same?”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “To knock me down and crush my dignity? How could I refuse?”

The king laughs, and so does Fergus. My brother adds, “Perhaps later, Your Majesty. Nalissa’s at her best with two daggers, and her hand isn’t quite healed yet.”

“Of course,” the king says. “Another couple of days, perhaps. In the meantime, I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what it is that I need to practice to have a chance?”

I nod, crossing my arms. “I understand you were a templar recruit, correct?” He nods, and I go on. “ _That_ is your weakness. Templars train from childhood to fight with a sword and shield. You have no shield now, but you haven’t retrained your mind to accept that. You still fight like you carry one. You don’t guard your left properly, and if you don’t remedy that, someone will take off that arm for you.”

He looks surprised, like he hadn’t considered that before. But he also looks like he might actually accept my advice. I hadn’t expected that from someone in his position.

“You knew before I even started fighting, didn’t you?” the king asks. “That’s… impressive.”

He says it so genuinely, I can feel my cheeks start to burn a little. “I had an advantage either way. I had watched you fight Fergus already, and you underestimated me.”

The king grins. “Why do I feel like I got lucky to be able to underestimate you in a practice bout no one was watching? I’m not so sure even Eamon could still present me as respectable if anyone else had seen that.”

I smirk and warn, “Best work on not favoring your left arm then.”

“Oh, I’ll have to. I can’t be having your brother know all he has to do to force my hand in political matters is send you after me. Imagine the people’s faces if they knew the king can handle darkspawn, but not noble ladies fighting with one hand!”

“You flatter me. I merely had the element of surprise.”

“Yes,” the king muses with a nod. “But I get the feeling you’re full of surprises.”

As we walk away, my brother observes, “You laughed again.”

“Stow it, Fergus.”


	5. Secrets

Much to my surprise, the Couslands join me for breakfast on the second morning of their stay. It’s barely what anyone would consider dawn, with what little light there is still thin and gray. Even Eamon is still abed. But it is the time of day the bells began to toll at the Chantry, and the time of day whoever kept last watch during the Blight would begin to bury campfires and pack up tents, so I am awake regardless. Some habits even becoming king can’t stamp out of you, apparently.

Teyrn Cousland, on the other hand, looks exhausted. He has the beginnings of circles under his eyes and yawns hugely as he reaches for a piece of toast.

Lady Cousland looks positively disinterested. There are shadows under her eyes too, but she is stoic as she takes a pastry and begins ripping it methodically into tiny pieces on her plate. As usual, she doesn’t speak up but her brother does.

“Good morning, Your Majesty,” he says politely.

“Good morning, Teyrn, Lady Cousland,” I answer in my best imitation of proper manners.

“Morning,” Lady Cousland murmurs, “though the ‘good’ part remains to be seen…”

This earns her a frown from the teyrn, but he returns his attention to me shortly. “Your Majesty, if I might so impose—I have business in the city today for which my sister does not wish to accompany me.”

Lady Cousland glares at him. “Business for which your sister has warned you—”

“Nalissa.”

She purses her lips and goes back to shredding her pastry, a little more viciously than before. The teyrn smiles and says, “Nothing to worry about, I assure you; she merely disagrees with my methods. But I had wondered if she might accompany you today as she normally would me in Highever. She would be no bother.”

“I’m sure she wouldn’t,” I say slowly. “Is there any particular reason _I_ would be concerned for your methods of… whatever it is you’ll be doing?”

Teyrn Cousland laughs. “Nothing untoward, Your Majesty, I assure you.”

Still, the way he glances over at Lady Cousland, as if to make sure she’s not going to correct him, doesn’t put my mind at ease.

The lady stays quiet as we leave the table for the throne room, and sits to one side of the room reading again as I go about meeting with a Bann with Chasind troubles. Twice, nobles visiting for help or mediation greet her by name and she returns the courtesy, but not until the heir of the West Hills arling enters for his appointment does she actually put the book down.

“Evander!” Lady Cousland greets him, actually standing up and smiling. “Your father let you out of the keep!”

“I could say the same about Fergus,” the arl’s son responds with a chuckle, and promptly hugs her like an old friend. “It’s good to see you doing well, Lissa.”

“Far better than either of us expected when last we parted, I’d wager,” she says wryly. “I never had the chance to apologize for that.”

Evander Wulff shakes his head. “If anything, I should be thanking you. It was nothing to what you must have gone through. And being trapped in the keep afterward was a small price to pay for making it home to Rienna.”

Lady Cousland nods and says pointedly, “You’ll have to tell me how she and the baby are doing, once you’re through. I’m sure the king will tire of politely waiting for our conversation to end before long.”

The arl’s son taps his nose and turns to me with a smile. His request is less troublesome than some of the others—his father simply needs the support of the king to send envoys to a handful of local Avvar holds, apparently requesting after a certain man that took something of vague importance from the arling. I grant it, with the condition the envoys turn back immediately if met with resistance, as the Bannorn cannot meet an Avvar threat should they be provoked so soon after the Blight. Lord Wulff agrees and thanks me, but Lady Cousland’s brow is furrowed as he turns to go.

She falls into step beside him as he leaves, and I can hear her whisper, “All those tribes, but not Redhold? Is Izot—” Her voice is drowned in shouting as two freeholders with a border dispute enter the throne room, and I make a mental note to ask her about that later.

Just before I’ve convinced one of them that swearing fealty to a Bann on the other side of the country “to get away from” the other man and current Bann is against his best interests, Lady Cousland returns. She looks no less concerned, and when I finally dismiss the freeholders with a plan for a fair division of the water source they’ve been arguing over, I check with Eamon how many other grievances I’m to hear before I can try to learn the truth of the previous one.

“We saved the best for last, as it were, Your Majesty,” he says with a grim smile. “That is all for today.”

“Well, thank the Maker for that,” I say with a sigh. “Lady Cousland, would you care for lunch?”

She agrees just as enthusiastically as she’s done anything else today—except for greeting Lord Wulff, that is—which is to say, with about as much interest as the average darkspawn has in epic poetry. As she stands, I catch the title of the book she’s reading at last and raise an eyebrow. “ _The Soldier and the Sea Wolf_? Is that some sort of bad romance novel?”

Lady Cousland actually snickers at me. “Of a sort. It’s my parents’ story, though they did have quite the terrible romance. A historian of the Rebellion wrote it after the Blight. It’s actually more accurate than I had expected; she even spelled my uncles’ names right.”

“Is that such a difficult task?” I wonder, and she grins.

“You spell Fearcher Mac Eanraig and then imagine what his sons’ names might be like.”

I chuckle and nod. “Point taken.” She falls silent, and I gauge her expression for a moment before saying, “I don’t suppose you would tell me—”

“No, I wouldn’t,” she cuts me off, her humor melting away immediately. “Fergus will be back before sundown. I’ll be waiting to tell him what an idiot he is. You can ask him about it then if you like, but you’ll hear nothing from me.”

Well, that certainly isn’t suspicious at all, but it doesn’t sound like I’ll get anything further from her about it anyway. “That’s… definitely interesting, but I actually meant to ask about Lord Wulff’s request.”

“Oh,” Lady Cousland says, looking unhappy but much less militant. She looks at me for a moment, then relents. “It… isn’t a some _thing_ they’ve lost to the Avvar. It’s his sister, Izot.”

I don’t think I could have been more stunned if she’d slapped me. “Wait, _what_? The Avvar took her hostage?! How could I not have heard of a raiding party?!”

“No! No, nothing like that,” she assures me quickly. “Izot _wed_ an Avvar man of Redhold, nigh on two years ago now. But the last three times they’ve sent messengers to the hold, neither Izot nor Azur has answered.”

“That… is differently problematic,” I agree thoughtfully. “Especially if the rest of their tribe is withholding answers.”

Lady Cousland nods and goes quiet again, her eyes far away, and not for the first time, I find myself wondering what she sees when she looks away like that.

* * *

Instead of the dining room, the king leads me to the second floor of the palace, where he apparently takes lunch on a balcony overlooking the city. He has to call for another chair and plate, and insists I sit while he waits. It’s actually pretty cute, and the view up here is nice too. I can’t even see Fort Drakon.

“So,” he asks as he waits, leaning over the rail, “did you come to Denerim a lot, before the Blight?”

I wonder for a moment if he’s picked up that I tend to use “the Blight” as a euphemism for “before my parents were murdered, my home usurped, and I was locked in prison for trying to take it back,” or if he’s just trying to be polite. Maybe both, I guess.

“Whenever my father did, since I was old enough to keep my mouth shut when I wasn’t the one being spoken to. Usually for Landsmeets or to hear a lot of what was going on in the throne room earlier, actually. Why do you ask?”

“Just curious. You seem to know a lot of the nobility first-hand instead of just through reputation, like I do.”

I smile at the memory. “Oh, yes. Mother loved hosting salons. Few were brave enough to turn down her invitations, even after they figured out I wouldn’t be marrying any of them.”

That apparently throws him off; he shakes his head slightly and blinks overmuch, like he isn’t sure if he heard me right. “Wait, what now?”

I can’t help it, I really do laugh a little at that. “Did you think this little plot Fergus and Eamon put together is the first time anyone’s tried to marry me off? You _have_ met me, right?” I shake my head. “Imagine me as a teenager, if you would. Convinced I needed to do everything my brother did since I could walk, and my father just laughing and encouraging me to train to fight and learn to lead. I’ve never exactly been the demure, ladylike teyrn’s daughter, and when there came a time certain people began to call for me to inherit the teyrnir instead of Fergus, yes, our mother tried very hard to prevent that.”

The king’s eyebrows rise. “The freeholders wanted you instead of your brother? That could have…”

“Meant civil war, yes,” I say quietly, looking back over Denerim and finding it suddenly less beautiful. “If I had been smarter, maybe I would have been less stubborn back then. Maybe if I’d married one of Howe’s sons when he asked politely, he wouldn’t have resorted to force.”

I can feel my skin crawl at the very idea, but the king cuts into my thoughts quickly: “Wait, _what_? Are you saying that’s why he attacked Highever?”

“No,” I say firmly, and by now I’m sure my disgust is apparent on my face, but I can’t stop it. “No, he definitely meant me to be very dead. But by the time he finally caught us, I think he sensed the change in the wind about Teyrn Loghain.”

He raises an eyebrow and asks, “Us?” He’s more observant than he pretends to be, I think.

I close my eyes for a moment, bracing against the memory and breathing a sigh before I say, “Yes. I escaped to West Hills after Highever fell. Rienna was already with child, but Evander refused to let me leave alone. We managed to assault a prisoner transport—Howe had kept my knight and Highever’s Chantry mother alive, probably to use as leverage against me.

“They kept trying to ambush us anyway after that, so we went on the offensive. Started attacking his convoys, disposing of the scum he was protecting from justice for supporting him, stopping public executions for dissention, whatever we could do to destabilize his hold on Highever and protect our people. It took him half a year to track us down.”

“I can’t believe I hadn’t heard of that,” the king says, shaking his head.

I smile a little sadly. “The freeholders kept it quiet. Trying to protect us in exchange or some such nonsense, I’m sure. When they finally caught up, Evander took an arrow just above the knee and couldn’t walk. Roderick and I hid him and broke away as a distraction. They cut down Mallol for trying to talk sense into them, Roderick and I were captured, and that was the end of our little rebellion.”

“And you… what, spent six months in Fort Drakon and no one ever tried to break you out?”

I’m stunned enough by the accusation that I don’t immediately object to the mention of the place. “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Evander barely made it home. _Roderick died_ trying to protect me. You can’t just _assault Fort Drakon_ , and even if anyone had tried, Howe had… a personal interest in making sure I stayed captured.”

“So… so that’s what keeping you captive was about? He wanted you to marry his son for… some kind of legitimate claim to the teyrnir?”

This time my lip curls a little in something more like a grimace than a smile. “I would really prefer not to talk about Fort Drakon. But yes, I was a back-up plan, I suspect. I don’t know why he thought it would work. Everyone I had ever loved was already dead, except the people he was asking me to hand over to him. He had no leverage and he would have killed me in the end either way.”

The king seems… uncomfortable as he looks at me and says in a soft voice, “You sound so matter-of-fact about that.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” I snap. “Do you imagine you would have been so optimistic in my place as to believe you would live? I chose the bloody death instead of the quiet one so that better people than me could live, and I would do it again. If you would have chosen differently in my place, you don’t deserve to be king.”

I realize what I’ve just said a half moment later. Again though, the king surprises me. He isn’t angry, just quiet and thoughtful. “I have no idea what I would have done in your place. I hope I would have been half as brave.”

Before I can deny any claim to bravery being involved, the servant he had sent away returns with a chair and additional place setting, and I lapse into a rather brooding silence. If only I could force my mind into silence, too.


	6. Bad Ideas

After dinner, Eamon accompanies me to the study. I know what he’s here to ask as he waits out whatever period of silence is polite before saying, “I understand you spent the entire day with Lady Cousland.”

I murmur agreement as I pick up a report on darkspawn movements from Orzammar that’s been delivered to my desk. If Eamon doesn’t want to come around to his point on his own, I’m not going to help him.

“Did you learn anything more about her?” he presses.

“Oh yes. She’s a revolutionary. She places entirely too little value on her own life. Oh and she did tell me that I might not deserve to be king.”

Eamon couldn’t have looked more taken aback if I’d told him the answer to combating the darkspawn horde was a sword made of stinky cheese. “She _what_?”

I chuckle at the look on his face. “She made a valid point about a choice she made during the Blight. Nothing to worry about, she isn’t trying to depose me. At least, I don’t think so. I still don’t know what her brother’s game is, come to think of it.”

After I’ve told him about Fergus Cousland’s strange disappearing act, Eamon frowns at me disapprovingly. “And why did you not think to inform me of this earlier? We could have had him shadowed and found out.”

“And what if he’d caught your man?” I challenge. “The king having a spy follow the Teyrn of Highever—that would have gone over well.” I pause, shrug, and finally admit, “Besides, I had hoped Lady Cousland might actually tell me. Unlikely at this point, I now realize.”

“He _is_ her teyrn as well as her brother,” Eamon points out.

“I don’t think that’s it,” I say slowly, tapping my fingers on the desk but not really seeing it. “She doesn’t seem to hesitate to contradict or challenge him normally, that’s what makes me wonder. I don’t know what this situation is or why it’s different.”

“It’s very concerning,” Eamon says, now pacing around the study and stroking his beard. “The Couslands have been loyal to the crown for generations. Highever is the oldest and most well-respected teyrnir—the _only_ teyrnir now, unless Anora sees fit to finally swear fealty to you and inherit her father’s title. If the teyrn is planning something unsavory…”

“I think it was dangerous for him, whatever he was doing,” I admit. “She did seem relieved to see him when he returned. But I don’t know that it was dangerous for anyone else. She doesn’t strike me as someone that would lie, even for her brother, if it was something that put Ferelden at stake. I’m curious, but I’m not… overly concerned.”

“Then allow me to be concerned on your behalf,” Eamon insists, and I give him a wry smile.

“You’re _always_ concerned,” I point out.

“Someone has to be. Perhaps this was not a good idea. We could ask them to leave.”

“What? No, don’t be ridiculous,” I object, waving off the idea. “She’s just begun to actually talk to me. Besides, we have a sparring match tomorrow.”

Eamon gives me a skeptical look, but I’m used to those. And as much as my dear nearly-uncle knows how to deal with me, I’ve learned to deal with him too. A distraction is the best countermeasure.

“Plus, she told me the truth of that request from West Hills today. It seems she knows the arl’s family quite well.”

“Yes, I believe the teyrna and arlessa once even tried to have Lady Cousland and Lord Wulff betrothed, but neither would have any of it.”

“Lord _Evander_ Wulff, the one I met today?” I repeat, and Eamon nods. How odd, considering everything else she had told me about him. He had even leapt to her defense when she had been exiled from her home in the worst way, but hadn’t wanted to wed her?

Eamon smiles. “I understand Lord Wulff’s wife was a serving maid before their wedding. I expect that had something to do with it.”

“Huh. It must run in the family, so to say,” I observe thoughtfully before explaining, “The arl’s daughter is missing. _She’s_ what they’re searching for in the Avvar holds. And no, no raiding parties,” I head him off with a raised hand. “It seems Lady Wulff married an Avvar man. Unorthodox to be sure, but I believe the arl is worried he may have lost his daughter to the Blight like his other two sons.”

“That would be most unfortunate,” Eamon says with a frown. “Gallagher Wulff is a good man. His family deserves better than they’ve got these past few years.”

“Far too many do, uncle,” I say with a sigh, looking down at the parchment before me at last.

I make a note on the Orzammar report, but it does nothing to improve my mood. It contains news in addition to the usual darkspawn details: they’ve named Sereda a paragon. I can’t imagine there are too many other paragons that were themselves descended from paragons, and kings besides; it’s an honor she would surely have burst with pride over. If she were still alive to receive it, that is.

I suppose I should be glad for her that her name has been recorded in the Shaperate again. It is the dwarven idea of an afterlife, to be remembered by future generations as venerated ancestors. I can still recall how it had devastated her to learn she had been stricken from it after her brother’s betrayal. She had had far too many betrayals in far too short a time.

She had once told me it was just another part of politics. Perhaps that had been her idea of a warning.

For the Couslands’ sakes as well as my own, I hope not.

* * *

“Well, do you want to tell me how likely we are to be murdered in our sleep?” I ask conversationally as I follow Fergus, without invitation, into his rooms.

He scowls at me and snaps, “Shut the door!”

I do as he asks, tempted to roll my eyes that he thinks I would have spoken if anyone else had been within earshot, but I restrain myself. It will do no good to provoke him right now. As much as I may disagree with what he’s done, I can’t but feel sympathy for him.

“You’re certain, _absolutely certain_ , that this is him?” I ask again.

“It’s him,” Fergus growls, his shoulders stiff as he stares out the window at the lights of Denerim. “The assassin gave me proof.”

I sigh and put a hand on his shoulder, but he shakes me off. I’m not offended; my brother isn’t one to accept gestures of comfort. They make him feel weak, and he hates to feel weak. That at least, different as we are, is something we have in common.

“I killed the men I caught outside your chambers, Fergus,” I remind him gently. “They paid immediately and dearly. I’m just not convinced this man—”

“He was there!” snaps my brother, a hard gleam in his eyes. When he looks like that, Fergus doesn’t remind me so much of Father anymore. I never in nineteen years saw our father with hatred in his eyes, not even as he bled to death in our mother’s arms.

Fergus shoves an envelope at me, and I take it with a skeptical look. As I open it and unfold its contents, I can feel my eyebrows rise.

> _Andraste’s ass, the teyrn is in the city!_
> 
> _I don’t think he could know I was in Highever that night. How could he? He weren’t there himself. And his sister, the girl what killed Varland and Chall and the others, they say she’s too crazy to remember. Got it all blocked right out of her pretty little head, she does, so even if she’d seen me before I got out, she ain’t telling._
> 
> _But it makes me nervous, them being here. Can’t be coincidence, can it, right when I’m between jobs and ships? And if they know, ain’t a thing to stop them from finding me excepting you._
> 
> _I need out of Denerim, quick as you can, any ship will do. If they know it was me what cut that boy’s throat, they’ll have mine for sure. Bleeding nobles have their ways, but I’ve got you, aye?_
> 
> _And if you don’t come through, I’ll haunt ye until every ship you’ve chartered lies under the blighted sea._

I swallow hard and fold the letter carefully. My hands shake as I put it down on the desk, and I find myself unable to look at it again.

It’s true, then. There _was_ another man that breached our family’s rooms during the attack on Highever, apart from the ones Mother and I killed on the spot. The man that put Oren to the sword.

I see it again in flashes. The moonlight streaming through the window over the bed. The splattering of blood across the coverlet, across the wall, across the terrified expression still etched onto Oriana’s face. Her eyes gazing emptily, her mouth open in a scream that would never escape but that Mother gave instead as we saw the small figure beside her, the dark pool around them still spreading like a portal into the Void—

“You see?” Fergus demands, and I do, I see everything, every damned thing I wasn’t quick enough to stop, and my hands shake as I bring them to my face, trying to wipe away the images from my eyes.

My ears ring, but when I open my eyes again, I’m back in the palace in Denerim. I half wish I wasn’t. I half wish I had just had the good sense to die there with the rest of my family.

“It was him,” Fergus is saying, and I shake my head a little to force him back into focus. He doesn’t seem to notice I had gone. “He killed my son in our home and he will _not_ escape from justice again.”

“Justice—” My voice comes out in a strangled whisper, and I clear my throat and try again. “Justice would be bringing the proof to the king, Fergus. He’d see him hanged or rotting in prison—”

“Nothing he’d see done would be justice for that butcher,” my brother snarls, and the hatred in his voice makes me feel sick.

I can’t imagine how it must feel, losing a child. But I remember how I’d nearly been sick that night, finding my brother’s wife and son murdered in their room. I remember pushing it down and fueling my blades with it, imagining every man that I cut down had been responsible because vengeance was the only thing that kept my heart from shattering.

But it hadn’t worked. None of the blood on my blades—and by the time Howe finally caught me, I was positively drowning in it—came close to making amends. There’s still a raw wound in my chest where Oren was ripped away, and he had been only my nephew. And there are more, for my father, for my mother, for Roderick. If the holes they left behind had been physical, I would be long dead already. Instead I live on and just break a little more each day. All I still have it in me to want is better for my brother.

I swallow back the bile that threatens to rise in my throat and try to look at Fergus with a calm, patient expression like our father would have. I can tell before I speak that it doesn’t work. I’ve always been more like Mother.

“An assassin isn’t justice, Fergus,” I say as gently as I can. I sound more tired than gentle.

“No,” he agrees. “But as much as I’d love to do it myself, I can’t. And she had family in the Crows. They will make him suffer first.”

I try, one last time: “Is that what Oriana and Oren would have wanted?”

My brother’s eyes are cold as he looks at me and says, “I’ll never know what they would have wanted, Lissa. I’d have thought you of all people would understand.”

I excuse myself without a reply, as there really isn’t one to be given. Once in bed, I can only stare up at the canopy sleeplessly, because I do understand. I don’t agree, but Maker’s mercy, do I understand.


	7. Dead to Rights

Today has been the longest day, and not just because mediations between a pair of feuding Banns stretched itself out into a two and a half hour ordeal, completely obliterating Eamon’s perfectly planned schedule.

I’ve hardly gotten any sleep at all. After Eamon finally retired and I finished my response to King Harrowmont’s letter, I still couldn’t fall asleep for a mixture of memories from the Blight and curiosity over what Teyrn Cousland could have been up to. Finally, I decided to indulge some questions that could actually be answered and woke the librarian to find me a copy of _The Soldier and the Sea Wolf_. I had made it around five chapters in before falling asleep.

Naturally once I finally did doze off, I proceeded to oversleep and woke with the book on my face and entirely too late for breakfast. Apparently it isn’t possible to suffocate on paper, or I would’ve probably been the first king to do it. After that, the rest of the day dragged on all the way until lunch, which passed far too quickly, and then there were more angry nobles to deal with, these all the angrier for their appointment times having been shifted back. All my fault, of course—the perks of being king.

Despite the lack of sleep, I’m more exhausted mentally than physically as I head for the training arena. Being responsible for everything is pretty draining, and this is one of those days I remember how very much I didn’t want to be king at first.

I hear the scraping of blade on blade ahead and groan inwardly. If the knights are still training, I’m definitely going to turn back. I don’t have it in me to live up to any more royal expectations today.

But as I enter the training field, I find it mostly empty. Two lightly armored combatants spar in the arena, but no one is watching as they circle each other except for me. One I recognize as Teyrn Cousland, still aggressively attacking with his sword but a little more cautiously than he had against me. The other combatant is clad boot to neck in fine leathers that look like they’re made of drakeskin, a dark blue-violet that is cast nearly black in the orange light of sunset. Daggers dance in each hand with a speed Teyrn Cousland cannot rival, and which he seems to be counteracting on intuition alone.

A pair of sea-green eyes glance up at me, and I realize with a jolt that the second fighter is Lady Cousland, and the teyrn is fighting her not based on intuition but previous experience. The two have probably done this since they were children, but neither seems willing to lose just because I’ve arrived. Maybe this is what sibling rivalry looks like.

The teyrn fights like a Mabari warhound: calculating and precise, but fierce and deadly when he strikes. His every move is planned, and sometimes it shows. The lady fights like a wildcat: all speed and misdirection, as committed when she feints as when she actually goes for the throat. Her actions and reactions are the same, too fluid to tell apart. I understand, watching them, why Teyrn Cousland had said it had been a while since he had seen his sister lose. One-on-one duels are battles of wits as much as blades, and she has the advantage of speed in both categories.

She spins on her heel, and the teyrn spies an opening. He thrusts, but discovers at the last moment it was a trap. She strikes the bottom of his wrist with the hilt of one dagger, throwing off his grip and almost making him drop the blade. The next moment, she has closed the gap, kicked the back of his knee out from under him, and freezes with the second dagger a hair’s breadth from the back of his neck.

Lady Cousland is grinning like a jackal as she steps back, whirling her blades. “Told you I could get a strike from behind. You owe me ten silvers.”

“You kicked my leg out from under me,” the teyrn complains, straightening his knee and testing that it still bends properly.

“From _behind_ ,” she counters, sheathing her daggers and spreading her hands pointedly. “Do bandits and mercenaries lay down a set of rules with you before they try to kill you? If so, you’ve met far friendlier chaps on the road than I have. You won’t always have knights to guard your back.”

“Point taken,” the teyrn admits grudgingly. “Is that what the ten silver’s for? To simulate being waylaid by bandits?”

Lady Cousland crosses her arms and tries to look aloof. “To teach you a lesson, and also to buy some new wrapping for the handles of my daggers while we’re in the city. Look, they’re getting threadbare!”

Teyrn Cousland shakes his head and turns to smile sheepishly at me. “Greetings, Your Majesty. So glad you could come just in time to see me definitively proven the worst fighter of the three of us.”

I grin back at him. “Don’t feel too bad. I used to train with a Qunari, two dwarves, an Orlesian bard, and an Antivan Crow. I’ve gotten trounced _plenty_ of times.”

I swear the Couslands trade a quick look of alarm, but I can’t for the life of me figure out why. “Er… everything alright?”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Lady Cousland says with a nod, and I raise an eyebrow at her.

“Still with the ‘Your Majesty?’ I thought we agreed after the dueling me into the dirt one-handed incident, you could call me by my name.”

She hesitates, then relents with a shrug. “Alistair then, if you insist.”

I nod appreciatively. “You have no idea how hard it is to get anyone to call me by my name anymore. Even Eamon insists on the formalities most of the time, and he practically raised me until I was ten.”

Lady Cousland smiles. “No, I do. Squires apprenticing at Highever received the same education as Fergus and I. Growing up with them, and then having them all start calling you ‘my lady’ is something you never really get used to.”

I try not to look disappointed. “Ah. So that never really changes then, I take it? They still do that?”

Teyrn Cousland shoots another sharp look at his sister, but though her smile vanishes, she only answers quietly, “No, most of them don’t call me anything. They were the knights that stayed to hold the gates of Highever so I could escape.”

Stunned, I stammer, “I—I’m sorry.”

Lady Cousland just looks at me, and her eyes are every bit as unreadable as the waters of the Waking Sea. I wonder if even she knows what she feels in that moment, or if she’s hiding it away even from herself as she says, “It may sound strange, you know, but knowing someone as Tavith instead of Ser Arlow is a powerful thing. Especially when she dies for you and all you can think about is how she wrote terrible poetry and collected dragon statuettes.”

“Or Sereda instead of Warden Aeducan,” I agree quietly. “And even though you’ve been a Warden longer than she has, she shoves you out of the way and dies killing an Archdemon. And while everyone else talks about bravery and sacrifice, you remember her being afraid of falling up into the sky and singing awful drinking songs. I’m… familiar with the concept.” I smile to push back the memories and add, “And I still want to win that match and earn your first name, so long as you’re willing.”

She gives me a long look through slightly narrowed eyes, very much like the one she had worn when she had watched me fight before. It feels like I’m being sized up, and I’m starting to get uncomfortable when she finally cracks a smile.

“Nalissa then, if you like,” she says, drawing her daggers and quirking one eyebrow at me. “Because if you wait on that win to get to use it, you might be calling me Lady Cousland forever.”

I grin at the challenge and step into the arena. I haven’t fought an opponent with two blades since Zevran; this should be fun.

* * *

I’m impressed with how much the king must have practiced since the last time we sparred. Considering it was only a couple of days ago, he’s made a dramatic improvement. It makes me wonder if he really just latched onto the defeat as an excuse to throw himself into fighting with his sword again. Either that, or he’s a far more gifted combatant than he gives himself credit for.

Not only has he managed to make excellent progress on retraining himself not to try blocking with his shield arm, he’s also noticed the weakness that comes with my daggers and focuses hard on keeping me just far enough away that I can’t reach him. He’s _definitely_ better at this than his self-deprecating jokes indicate. It seems his reputation from the Blight wasn’t all posturing.

It’s more fun to spar with Alistair than with Fergus, too. Maybe it’s because I know my brother’s personality too well, but he’s entirely too easy to bait. The king is a new puzzle, and he makes me work much harder for it this time, but I still manage a second victory.

If I read him right, which I’m pretty sure I do, he’s rusty but coming out of it now that he has someone to practice with instead of running drills on his own. So when he asks for another rematch tomorrow, I agree. Another day or two at this pace, and he might even beat me. I find that the idea’s exciting; it’s been too long since I’ve had a challenge. The few knights remaining at Highever were too relieved I’d made it back alive to do any real practicing. Maybe that’s how the king’s men are too.

Evening has fallen while we sparred, and by the time we wash up and change, we are inexcusably late for dinner. The regent is not as upset by this as I would have expected for someone so married to the rules of court. In fact, I swear he’s smiling at Alistair when Fergus and I arrive.

Dinner is comparatively uneventful, or at least, it is for me. My mind returns to the revelations of the night before in the absence of any engaging topic of conversation. By the time Fergus excuses us from the table, I’ve made up my mind.

I retire to my bedroom quickly, telling my brother I’m tired. He doesn’t question it, as distracted as he is. And once alone, instead of changing into nightclothes, I slip my leathers back on quietly, along with a short cloak that reaches only to my elbows but has a low hood to hide my face. Dante whines when I shut him inside the room again, but though he’s steadfast, he’s nowhere near stealthy enough for what I have planned.

I had anticipated trouble sneaking my way out of the palace, but none comes. The halls are deserted and the small garden behind the dining room does share a wall with the stables as I had suspected, from where it’s a simple matter to slide unnoticed past the stablemaster and into the city.

The real difficulty comes in actually locating the man my brother has hired assassins to kill. I know his name is Fallon and he is a mercenary, and that Howe bought his presence in the castle that night for the skill of his blade. But he bought the blades of many men, and none of them matched the two of mine. I’m not worried about a washed-up sellsword or his pirate associates; I just need to reach him before the Crows do.

And find him I do, hiding away inside the same warehouse the assassins had marked for Fergus. It almost makes me angry. What kind of idiot, suspecting someone might be trying to kill him, stays in the same place three nights in a row? He might as well have left a note or painted a sign on the rooftops. The door is locked, but easy as it is to pick, it might as well not be.

The man inside is sleeping, his back to a corner of the wall, though at least he does have one hand on the pommel of his sword. For all the good it will do him.

“Are you _actually_ suicidal?” I ask, loudly enough to jar him from his sleep. He startles and sits up straight, and _lets go of the damn sword in surprise._  A moment later, his hand moves back to the blade and I sigh. “Let’s just agree not to do that, shall we? It won’t end well for you.”

The man eyes my leathers, and I can see him trying to peer into the shadow beneath my hood. “Who are you? One of Carlow’s girls?”

“No acquaintance,” I answer. I don’t have time to care who Carlow is, and the answer would probably only infuriate me further. “I’m here because of what you did in Highever.”

A flash of fear crosses the man’s face, and he leaps to his feet quicker than I had expected. His blade is in his hands as he moves, but his movements are as ale-sodden as his breath and I knock the sword from his hand with ease. He eyes my daggers and seems to consider leaping for the fallen blade. I shake my head pointedly.

“You deal with me or with the Crows, Fallon, and the boy you killed was half Antivan. They will not treat you kindly.”

His sweaty face pales, and he takes a step back instead of forward. “Are you—are you her? The mother, come back to haunt me?”

“Oriana is with her son,” I say quietly. “I am here for my nephew.”

“Your n—” His knees give way beneath him, and he falls back against a support beam. “You’re the girl. The one what killed the rest of the men that night.”

I nod slowly, pointedly. He knows what is coming now and laughs a little hysterically. “It wouldn’t have mattered if I _had_ gotten to my sword again, would it?”

“No,” I answer honestly, crouching before him so the oil lamp in the corner illuminates my face. “But I’m not heartless. You were following orders. Orders from a sack of filth dressed poorly as an arl, but orders nonetheless. I’ll give you a clean death. Better than you would receive otherwise.”

“They said you didn’t remember,” he says suddenly, a plea for understanding if not for mercy. “They said I wouldn’t have to worry about you, after what Howe did—”

My hand moves of its own volition at the sound of Howe’s name. The slash is quick, clean, and exactly as deep as necessary, if full of a little more hatred than it should have been. The man’s words turn into a gurgle, and I shake my head.

“I remember _everything_ ,” I snarl, surprised how vicious the words come out. “Now it’s your turn.” I stand, moving out of range of the arterial spray, and wipe my blade clean. “Thank the Maker it was me that came for you first, before He sends you into the Void.”

I leave him there, in the sawdust of an abandoned warehouse, for his friends or for the Crows to find. Which gets there next doesn’t matter. The important part is done.

It’s all gone a bit too well, but that doesn’t strike me immediately. I easily scale the wall between the stables and garden again, and I’m past the first set of steps when something snatches my wrist. Before I can reach my dagger, someone has pulled me into a room off the hallway and I’m spun against a wall. As my breath gets knocked out of my chest in a gasp, the door slams shut and I find that the king is looming over me, his eyes more livid than I would have previously guessed them capable.

“You have two minutes to give me one good reason I shouldn’t call the guard.”


	8. Consequences

My heart is hammering so loudly in my ears, I’m not sure I could hear Nalissa Cousland’s answer if she gave one. I can still hardly believe my eyes. When I saw her sneak past my study dressed in her leathers again, I was curious. When I watched her scale the garden wall and sneak out of the palace, I was concerned. But what she had done when I followed her, the man she had killed as he lay on the ground already disarmed, still seemed too cold for the impression of her I had had before that moment. It’s only that impression of her and a few words I overheard that have kept me from having her arrested already.

She still looks shocked, whether more so that she’s been caught or that it was me doing the catching, I can’t say. But she catches her breath quickly and doesn’t reach for her blades, just hides behind that unreadable expression again. It’s infuriating.

“Did you hear me?” I demand. “You just _killed someone_. What could you possibly have to say for yourself?”

“Nothing,” she answers, and the calmness in her voice throws me off. “What, did you expect me to deny it? Yes, I killed him, and I would do it again. Call for your guards, but tell them to come armed. I’ll not go back to Fort Drakon.”

Her eyes look like the Waking Sea again, tumultuous but impossible to understand. I shake my head at her in frustration. “ _Why_? Is that what you really came here for, to be your brother’s assassin?”

I had thought better of her, but I don’t say it. She sighs softly. “No. My brother has no idea where I was. And Fallon being here was entirely coincidence, if you can believe it.”

“I don’t.”

“I don’t blame you,” she says with a shrug. “I wouldn’t either.”

I’m not sure what’s more vexing, how calm and enigmatic she’s being or how somehow she still seems so reasonable. “I don’t understand why. You had him disarmed already.”

She watches me closely for a moment and then realizes aloud, “You saw, but you didn’t hear, did you? Because he _killed my nephew_. My brother’s six-year-old son.”

My grip on her wrist loosens, but I don’t let go. Just in case. “He was with Howe during the attack on Highever?”

Her face twitches just under one cheekbone. It’s an involuntary motion, something almost like a flinch, and it’s the closest she’s come to showing pain since that brief moment in the garden her first night here. “He broke into my brother’s room and cut the throat of a defenseless child because that bastard told him to. So yes, I did the same to him. And it was better than he deserved.”

It’s my turn to watch her closely. The tilt of her chin is defiant, like she’s daring me again to say I would have done otherwise in her place. I can't quite do it, because I have no idea what that must have done to her to see. I settle for saying slowly, “I did hear some of it, at the end. What did you mean, he should have been thankful it was you that found him? Is your brother looking for him too?”

Her jaw tenses, and I wonder if she will lie to me. Instead, she lets out a long, low breath and looks me square in the eyes. “Understand that as soon as your two minute deadline is up, I will deny every word of what I’m about to say. Upon my word as a daughter of Highever, I will scream to every knight that attempts to take me prisoner that I, and I alone, am responsible.”

I nod in agreement, a little uncertain and with not a little bit of dread, and she goes on, “No, not Fergus. His wife Oriana was Antivan. Her cousin Mauricio is a Crow, and my fool of a brother contacted him. Another few hours, and that man would have been begging for a death so clean as he was given. He didn’t deserve the mercy, but I gave it anyway to keep my brother’s hands clean.”

“His hands? What about yours?”

She gives me a look that’s more resigned than repentant. “I told you what I did after Highever fell. That sellsword is far from the first I’ve killed for throwing in his lot with Rendon Howe.”

I consider what she’s said, and despite the bravado in her words, I think I finally see her for who she is. “You said he didn’t deserve your mercy,” I push. “But you could have killed him any number of ways. You could have taken your time. You didn’t know I was there.”

Something shifts in her sea-green eyes, and I realize I’m right. She doesn’t harden her expression because she’s some remorseless killer. She does it because it hurts her to speak of, and she refuses to let that show.

“I’m many things, but I’m not a torturer,” she answers, her voice carefully even, perfectly unreadable. Measured and practiced to keep it strong when she is not.

“No, you’re not,” I agree quietly. The last thing she had said back in that warehouse, the part I _had_ overheard, was after all what had kept me from raising an alarm immediately. At the time, I had thought the man might have been one of those that tortured her. I suppose in a way, I had been right. “You do remember it, don’t you? That’s the real reason you don’t want to talk about it, why you couldn’t let it happen to someone else even if you think he deserved it. Why you couldn’t let your brother be responsible for someone else’s torture. You remember being the victim.”

Suddenly she rises to her full height, still a full head shorter than me, but there is something like a snarl on her lips and somehow she manages to look down at me anyway. I notice for the first time a faint scar on her cheek, so small that it was invisible before she stood this close with the firelight shining just so on her face. Somehow it serves to underscore her words as she says, “I am _no one’s_ victim. I did not survive things that have broken weaker men to be called _anything_ they tried to make me.”

It probably should make me angry again the way she says it, but it doesn’t. It almost makes me sad.

I think she sees the hesitation in my eyes, and she sets her jaw and leans back against the wall, visibly trying to calm herself. “Yes. I remember.”

“Why do you tell everyone you don’t?”

She shoots me a sharp look and lets it linger for a long moment before the line of her lips soften. When she speaks, her voice is much fainter than I’m expecting: “When they finally pulled me out of that place, I was at the chirurgeon’s for a week before I even woke up. Fergus had been there for the last three days. He’d missed the worst of it, but I doubt it would have taken a thorough inspection to get a good idea what the last few months of my life had been like. When he asked me if I remembered it, I could tell he hoped I didn’t. He didn’t need my litany of nightmares to add to his own anyway, so I told him what he wanted to hear.”

I nod slowly and let go of her wrist at last. She looks surprised, and even more so when I lower my arms so she’s no longer caged between them.

“You should know,” I tell her slowly, “that every one of the men responsible for torturing and killing prisoners under Loghain and Howe was tried and sentenced as a war criminal. Those of the guards that we could prove had watched it happen, too. I had to break Sereda out of there once when Loghain’s lieutenant had her captured. I’m sorry we were so single-minded in our prison break. I never even considered at the time there could be other innocent people inside as well.”

She swallows hard, like there’s something stuck in her throat. It doesn’t quite seem to work, because her voice is still thick. “Thank you,” she says, and after a moment’s hesitation, “Alistair.”

It’s the closest she’s ever come to actually showing me any vulnerability at all. It’s like putting on armor for her, I think, the way she hides behind that forced calm, and all the world a battlefield.

“Please just call the guard if you find any more of Howe’s soldiers in the city,” I say with a heavy sigh.

She gives me a dry smile. “That’s what I told Fergus. He would have, I think, if it hadn’t been… that particular man. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said he killed Oren, please understand that. Fallon held the blade.”

Maybe I shouldn’t, but I believe her. Her mask is still imperfect, and her last few words are thick with pain. Finally, I move out of the way and say, “It’s getting late. You should get some sleep.”

For some reason, she doesn’t seem to believe me. There’s a crease between her eyebrows as she asks slowly, “Are you… quite sure?”

“I believe I was mistaken and fell asleep at my desk tonight,” I say pointedly, gesturing toward the paperwork still stacked there. “But it won’t happen again.”

She nods slowly and agrees, “It won’t. Thank you.” She pauses at the door and gives me a slight bow. “Good night, Alistair.”

“Good night, Nalissa.”

* * *

Even when I finally make it back to my room, my heart is still pounding. It had been careless of me not to make more certain I wasn’t being followed past the palace walls. Anyone else would have had called for me to be imprisoned by now. I still can’t quite believe the king hasn’t.

Dante jumps excitedly in a circle by the hearth upon my return, and I sit down by the fire with him, still lost in thought. He rests his head on my lap to drool all over my armor, and I just scratch his ears and let him. He was worried about me and had every right to be.

Just how the king managed not to be seen is a mystery, but why he wouldn’t have called for my head is a much more puzzling one. If I had thought it was some misplaced pity, I would be very angry, but it doesn’t strike me that way. He had sounded almost understanding, and I can’t fathom why.

Then again, I suppose, it isn’t entirely out of character for what I’ve seen of him thus far. For someone without the proper upbringing that seems so convinced he wasn’t meant to be king—if all his jokes at his own expense are to be believed, anyway—he’s actually pretty good at it. I wonder if he knows how long it took some people to hone the ability to put themselves in both sides of an argument and find a common ground suiting to both. Fergus still struggles with it sometimes. Others never bother to develop the skill at all.

Dante whines and nudges my other hand, then licks it in concern. He’s found blood there, and I assure him quietly that it isn’t mine and that I wasn’t injured without his assistance. He paces about me anyway, already restless from being confined so much more than he’s used to. For a warhound, still he worries like a nanny dog, and it makes me smile.

“Tell you what,” I bargain, taking his wide head in my hands and rubbing his ears soothingly. “Tomorrow, I’ll take you into the city. Stretch our legs, explore some shops, get some new wrapping for my daggers, and we’ll find you a nice bone while we’re out. Assuming the king hasn’t changed his mind and had me beheaded by then, of course.”

The Mabari lolls his tongue out of his mouth happily and barks.

“I’m glad you’re so confident, then,” I tell him, but though I can’t quite say why, I feel pretty certain Alistair will keep his word. Maybe he’s just so different from how I’d imagined him before coming to Denerim that I’ve come to accept he would willingly make precisely the opposite decision any other ruler would. Maybe it’s the sincerity in his soft brown eyes, or that copy of _The Soldier and the Sea Wolf_ I’d spied on his desk just before I left. Maybe it’s a little bit of all three.

I’ve barely slept at all when Fergus knocks on my door, but that’s normal by now and he doesn’t question it. Any night I’ve slept at all is still better than the ones where I lie in bed, too terrified of what lurks in the shadows of my own mind to close my eyes. Thankfully, those nights have become slowly fewer and farther between.

I don’t tell Fergus what happened last night. If the Crows don’t tell him and claim the kill for their own, it’s possible I won’t have to. But I’m glad to see the circles under his eyes have faded, if not the lines of worry around his frown.

No one marks it unusual when I say at breakfast that I plan to go into the city with Dante. Fergus says it will do me good and mentions a few acquaintances that he’s heard are visiting Denerim, none of whom I’m particularly enthusiastic to meet, but I pretend to be.

Alistair watches me thoughtfully for a moment before deciding to assign one of his knights to accompany me, for my own protection—the closest he gets to mentioning the events of the night before. Normally I would object to the idea of needing a guard, but I’m mindful that isn’t the real reason for his concern so I let it pass with an, “As you wish.”

The knight that meets me by the gates has obviously been selected more for his curiosity than his fighting prowess. The boy can only be freshly sworn to his knighthood, because he looks scarcely old enough for the title, as gangly and freckled as he is. He also introduces himself as Rian first before realizing and correcting himself.

“Er, Ser Haywood, that is. And you must be Lady Cousland. His Majesty instructed I should accompany you into the city today.”

“I hope you won’t be too bored,” I say politely. “I don’t have anything particularly exciting planned, just some browsing and shopping.”

Ser Haywood grins. “I have three sisters, my lady. Don’t worry, I can entertain myself while you search for new dresses or shoes or what have you.”

The assumption makes me smirk. “Actually, I was planning on new wrapping for my daggers, oil for my leathers, and a treat for Dante here.” I pat the Mabari on the head and add thoughtfully, “Well, perhaps some snowspur blooms if I see any in the market to make my room here feel more like home, but nothing more frivolous than that.”

That seems to take the young man aback for a moment. He stares at me as if trying to match what I’ve just said with the embroidered walking dress I’m wearing, and the bewildered look he still wears says that he can’t quite manage it. He moves past that quickly though and begins bombarding me with questions—where I’m from that grows snowspurs, why I see fit to carry daggers, have I ever had to use them, what their tactical advantage is against more long-reaching armaments. He carries on all the way through the purchase of some new wrapping for my daggers, dyed a lovely indigo to match my leathers. Finally I run into Habren Bryland in the markets, and my talkative companion retreats a few yards away to scan the area for potential threats while I’m forced to make small talk with her.

Thankfully, her father appears at length to rescue me. Arl Bryland greets me warmly and saves me from discussing the latest shoe buckle fashions out of Orlais by telling Habren that if she spends any more coin, they’ll have to sell the arling to pay for it. She stomps off in a huff with her guards, and the arl turns to me with a smile.

“I’m so glad to see you out and about, my dear girl,” he says sincerely. “We’ve all been worried about you, these past months.”

“I’m perfectly well,” I lie, but I lie convincingly. “There was simply a bit of a… healing period, you understand.”

The arl’s smile turns sad, and I know he’s going to bring up my parents before he does. “That’s good to hear. Bryce and Eleanor would be so proud of you for how you fought for Highever. They deserved better than what they suffered at Howe’s hands. So do you.”

Rendon Howe’s face smirks from a black corner of my mind and my fists clench. I can feel my face twitch at the memory, but I can’t stop it. I might as well try to stop the wind.

“I am sorry,” Arl Bryland says, laying a hand on my shoulder. In that moment, with those thoughts in my head, it takes every ounce of my restraint not to shove it away. But I manage it, because Arl Bryland is like an uncle to me and because I cannot show weakness and because he moved just slowly enough for me to retain control. “It must still be immeasurably difficult for you.”

“It is,” I admit, closing my eyes for a moment, trying to replace the image of Howe in my head with anything else.

“But I hear you’re in Denerim for the king, is that right?” the arl asks, and the change of subject surprises me enough that I open my eyes again.

“Yes, I suppose it is.”

The arl is back to smiling again. “He’s making quite the impression on the court, for one so young. Those of us that wanted Bryce as king over Cailan were somewhat concerned King Alistair might be _too much_ like his brother, but he seems much more willing to admit what he doesn’t know and work to correct it.”

“His default mode of thinking seems to be that he isn’t good enough at most things,” I muse. “It’s perplexing. He doesn’t know the ins and outs of all the family histories and rivalries of course, but he’s actually quite good at mediation, from what I’ve seen.”

Arl Bryland nods, his smile turning into something like what my mother would have worn. “So it would seem. But is that why you’re in Denerim, to observe his governance? He seems like a kind, thoughtful young man. It does lead one to wonder.”

“Maker’s breath, there aren’t rumors already, are there?” I groan inwardly. I’m not sure if it would really make matters worse if the Bannorn has guessed what my brother and the regent plan, but it certainly feels like it. As a teyrn’s daughter, none of the potential suitors my mother had tried to match me with were above my own standing, so I had the freedom to decline. I hardly have that advantage over the King of Ferelden. If this is made public, it is made irrevocably _real_.

“Should there be?” the arl asks, raising his eyebrows.

“Arl Bryland, I think you’ve spent entirely too much time around my mother.”

The arl laughs. “My dear, surely you know by now the true gossipmongers aren’t the young ones like Habren. It’s those of us too old to have much else interesting to talk about.”

“How comforting,” I say sarcastically, and Arl Bryland pats my shoulder again.

“I jest, my girl. I only wish you to be happy again, whatever form that happiness takes.”

The arl disappears after his daughter shortly, and I turn to tell Ser Haywood I’m ready to go on only to find a stranger standing in his spot. The man is elven, about my height with olive skin and eyes that glitter like emeralds. They’re hard like emeralds too, despite the coy smile on his lips. Whoever he is, I instantly distrust him. Beside me, Dante’s hackles raise, and I know he doesn’t either.

“Ser Haywood, where have you gone off to?” I call after him as if I don't notice the elven man, and his smile broadens.

“Your knight will be along shortly,” he says in an accented tone and I flinch inwardly at the wording. _My_ knight has been gone for a long time now, and as much as I would trade for it to be so, he won’t be returning.

“And where is he, if I may ask?” I reply, careful to keep my voice light with politeness and curiosity even as my fingers search for the slit in the side of my skirt that gives access to the dagger against my thigh. Dante will only buy me so much time, after all.

“He went to help my associate with something,” the man answers vaguely before stepping toward me. I nod and step away, placing myself behind Dante and pretending to be interested in a nearby display of flowers, but the stranger is not discouraged and approaches closer still.

“A pity they don’t have snowspurs,” the man says in a low voice meant only for my ears. I freeze in place, my fingers on the petals of a lovely white rosebud someone managed to coax to life in the middle of winter, and I swear time slows around me as the cogs in my mind turn.

He must have been following us since the palace to overhear that. We definitely haven’t mentioned it since talk of weaponry distracted Ser Haywood’s barrage of questions. I haven’t exactly been keeping an eye out for anyone following us, not having anticipated the need, but he must still be practiced at it to have avoided notice. Not just anyone could linger by the gates of the palace and wait for us to leave, after all.

I watch his smile broaden, ignore the distraction of his left hand brushing hair behind his ear, and search for the other. It’s tucked behind his back, probably holding something. He _could_ be a courier, that’s quite the normal line of work for an elven man in Denerim, but he hasn’t asked my name and the fact that he mentioned snowspurs tells me likely already knows it. Which means he is probably not holding a package but a blade, and I draw back quickly to reach for my own.

A thorn catches my hand as I withdraw, ripping a crimson line down my right index finger. Quicker than I would have expected, the strange elven man catches my hand. Dante snarls and lunges, and the elven man steps back, just out of reach of the Mabari’s jaws. I grasp wildly for the blade hidden in my skirt, but before I can draw it, he is offering me a white handkerchief and clicking his tongue at me. For some reason, this is bizarre enough to give me pause again.

“Careful, my lady,” he admonishes, a strange purr to his words. In a flash, I recognize it. Oriana had had the same one. This man is _Antivan_ , and that can only mean one thing. He is no simple thief or bandit.

“You’re the one my brother hired, aren’t you?” I ask, and he chuckles at me as he wraps the handkerchief over my wound. He must have moved slowly enough this time that Dante does not charge.

“Such a clever little bird! Indeed it was I Master Mauricio sent to Denerim, though I seem to have been rather superfluous. I wonder why I was even contracted, if you could do the job so efficiently.”

I say nothing, just pull my hand away and remove the handkerchief quickly. He laughs at me again. “It isn’t poisoned, lovely one. Even I could not have planned so far ahead as to know you would cut yourself. You should be more cautious.”

My eyes narrow at him. “Yes, I do believe I should. You, meanwhile, should return to Antiva and report your contract complete. I’ll hardly be claiming credit.”

“I suspected as much,” the Crow says brightly, smiling and giving me an odd wave with only two fingers extended. “Ta-ta then! Until we meet again.”

“ _If_ we meet again,” I correct him, but he just winks and disappears into the crowd.

Not a moment later, Ser Haywood emerges, panting, from an alleyway and insists the suspicious character that has just led him on a merry goose chase may still be about, and we should return to the palace at once. I don’t argue, though more for his benefit than my own.

I don’t mention the handkerchief I’ve hidden away that bears the symbol of the Antivan Crows.


	9. Refuge

Nalissa is distracted and I can’t figure out why. All I really know is she isn’t fighting like she did before, like her heart isn’t in it. She still parries and feints and dances around the arena, but her eyes look through me instead of at me and she doesn’t put as much effort into trying to flank me. I could probably beat her when she’s fighting like this but it wouldn’t be fair so it wouldn’t really prove anything, and I’m not one to take advantages I haven’t earned. Finally, after she passes up a perfectly valid opening I’ve given her intentionally to see if she’s paying attention, I frown and lower my sword. It’s a moment before she realizes and pauses too.

“What’s wrong?” she asks, and even her expression seems distracted. She doesn’t quirk her eyebrow or tilt her chin as I’ve come to expect when she’s curious or surprised, and the furrow between her brows was already there.

“That’s what I should be asking,” I say, tapping my thumb against the pommel of my sword thoughtfully. She’s probably still thinking about last night. Maybe she feels guilty for what she did, or maybe she just doesn’t know what to say to me after I followed her. Maybe she even thinks I might still turn her in to the guard.

“Apologies,” she says with a slight bow. “It’s been an… odd sort of day. I suppose my head isn’t in the fight.”

I nod and sheathe my sword. “In that case, perhaps you’d care for a walk instead? Somewhere quiet, so you can talk about it if you like.”

Nalissa hesitates, and keeps her daggers drawn as she does. Yes, I think, she definitely still wonders if I’ll turn her in. “Like where?”

I smile, hoping it will reassure her. “Let me show you where I go when I’m hiding from nobles after I’ve made decisions they don’t like. If you promise to keep my hiding place secret, of course.”

She gives me an odd look but sheathes her daggers and agrees. I lead her through a few corridors only used by the servants as I explain how I happened to stumble upon the place.

“I had probably been king for maybe a week when I got really blindsided by this one arl who was trying to trick me into forcing a couple of banns to swear fealty to him. I almost fell for it too, until he misspoke at the end and gave himself away. Eamon probably would have corrected me before I could make any orders too damning, but it was a close thing. Everyone would have thought me a right fool if he’d had to step in.

“Anyway, I was storming around angrily and thinking what an idiot I was, and how I never should have been king—I used to do that even more back then than I do now, if you can believe it—and I dodged after one of the servants to avoid Eamon. You know, so I could work on how I was going to tell him I was a terrible king and the Landsmeet should pick anyone else but Anora for the job, really.”

“You don’t _honestly_ believe you’re that awful at being king, do you?” she interrupts, and I hesitate.

“Well, honestly yes, sometimes. Like when people I think I can trust sneak off into the city and kill someone for revenge. Just as an example, of course.”

Nalissa looks abashed, color rising in her cheekbones as she frets with the studs on her left bracer. “I’m sorry for not telling you, all right? I was afraid you would punish Fergus for being an idiot. My brother has been through enough.”

“So you took it upon yourself alone?” I ask seriously, stopping to look at her. “Haven’t _you_ been through enough already too?”

She closes her eyes with a sigh but before she does, I can see the sadness written in them. “Enough for ten lifetimes.” Her smile is wry as she looks back at me, and I’m surprised to see that she hasn’t hidden her sorrow away. It’s plain to see in every angle of her face as she adds quietly, “But not yet more than I can endure.”

I frown as I realize, “That really was all the plan you had, wasn’t it? Take responsibility and die for it? But you didn’t even draw your blades.”

She looks genuinely surprised I would even suggest the idea. “What, did you really think I would try to kill you and escape? You’re the King of Ferelden, and so far as I’ve seen, you’re hardly a despot. Whatever you may think of me, I’ve never killed anyone without cause, especially not someone that holds my country together. You could have decided the appropriate sentence was to run me through and I wouldn’t have stopped you.”

“It… bothers me a little, how practical you sound saying that,” I admit. “I wouldn’t have killed you. I heard enough when I followed you to know that. I was just angry you lied to me.”

“I never lied,” she interrupts me quickly, her eyes piercing. “I specifically told you to get it out of Fergus _because_ I couldn’t tell you. I thought telling you the truth about Evander right afterward would underscore that there was a reason I _couldn’t_ talk about Fergus.”

Ah, was that what that was supposed to be? I suppose it makes… some sense in hindsight. “Yes well, going forward, could you maybe be a little more obvious? Like, I don’t know, make a sign that reads, ‘Alistair, pay attention’ or something?”

Nalissa laughs softly and shakes her head at me. “Let’s hope there’s no more need for literal signs. I really don’t fancy having to carry writing utensils with me the whole time I’m here.”

‘While she’s here,’ she said. It isn’t the first time today she’s said something like that either. At breakfast, I noticed she had said something to her brother about ‘while they were in the city,’ too, as if she really doesn’t plan to stay any longer than her brother does. I wonder if she’s simply speaking from habit or if she really doesn’t believe this plan of Eamon’s and Teyrn Cousland’s will end up happening. I wonder if that’s something else I should be paying attention to.

I keep wondering until we reach the end of a small back hallway behind a storage room, at which point she’s looking at me like she has concerns for my sanity. I grin and point to a small alcove half hidden by a suit of armor and a lot of disuse, where there’s a very old-looking wooden door with a tarnished handle. “ _This_ is my secret hideout,” I say as dramatically as I can manage. It earns me a raised eyebrow instead of the laugh I was trying for. Until I open the door.

Her eyes widen at the golden streaks of sunlight and she steps outside. There’s a little alcove of grass on the other side of the door, stretching along the palace wall to a low stone parapet between it and the cliff face a few yards to the right. It’s like a little overgrown patio with the palace on one side, a sheer wall of mountain on the other, and a view of the Amaranthine Ocean.

“It’s beautiful,” Nalissa whispers, walking straight to the edge and trailing a hand along the stone as she goes. I decide not to point out that she’s getting moss all over her bracers.

“I have no idea what it was for,” I admit, “but I don’t think anyone else really remembers it’s here. Maybe it was just some noble lady’s private garden or something.”

“Or it could even have been built just for its view of the sea,” she guesses, pointing. “To keep watch for a ship to return from… somewhere. Antiva or Rivain, maybe?”

I smile sheepishly and admit, “I don’t really know enough of my own family history to know if any of them might have had a need for that.”

She smiles and adds, “Someone could have just built it because it’s lovely. Not everything needs a complicated reason.”

I agree and our conversation ends there for the moment. But it’s a comfortable silence, watching the water glisten and churn beneath the rays of the sinking sun. And as the shadows lengthen around us, I can’t help but think that she’s lovely too. For some reason or other, I don’t think she even realizes.

“You know,” I say suddenly, without ever quite intending to, “You really don’t seem to put enough value on your own life.” She raises her eyebrows at me and I’m pretty sure I blush, but I’ve already started talking so I might as well finish. “You keep talking about what you’d die for. Your people, your brother, your principles. They’re all worthy things to die for, to be sure, but I think you aren’t considering how much less the world would be if you did.”

She laughs, as if she doesn’t believe I’m serious. Whatever my expression says in response sobers her though. “There are far better people in this world than me,” she says, sounding so confident in that. “People with things to do and dream of and live for. I don’t have anything of value left to give but my life.”

And something about what she says strikes home. I remember thinking something very much like that after Ostagar. I also remember how I wished I had been the one to die there, and how long it had taken to finally accept that Duncan would never have traded my life for his own. Unless I miss my guess, she isn’t there yet.

“You still wish you’d died, don’t you?” I ask quietly. Her jaw tenses and she looks away from me, and that’s when I realize. “You still _want_ to die.”

Nalissa stares out at the ocean for a long moment, and I start to think she isn’t going to answer me. When she does, she’s still gazing into the water and her knuckles are white against the stone parapet. “Rendon Howe didn’t just betray my father. You understand that, don’t you? He wasn’t some kind of passing acquaintance. He was like an uncle to Fergus and me—we saw him more than our _actual_ uncles. And if my brother had been there for the battle at Ostagar as he was meant to be, Howe would have succeeded in killing everyone I have ever loved. For all I knew for a very long time, he had. So yes, I do think death would have been better.”

“It wouldn’t have been _better_ ,” I argue. “It would have been _easier_. You wouldn’t have had to try to figure out how to keep going.”

She doesn’t contradict me, just lets out a long sigh like she’s been holding in the confession. “I still don’t know how. I’m just getting by on habit and willpower. But I’m bound to run out of one of those eventually.”

“Well, I’ve only known you for about a week, but I’m betting from what I’ve seen it’ll be the habits.”

She chuckles weakly and finally looks back at me, a sidelong glance from the corner of her eye. “Is that why they made you king? To diffuse tension with a razor-sharp wit?”

“I still don’t know why they made me king,” I admit. “Maybe just because Anora’s a backstabbing shrew.”

“This is why they made you king,” she says, waving a hand at me. When I give her a blank look, she says, “You’ve known me for a week and I’ve told you things I won’t admit to my own brother. That’s some kind of charm you’ve got there.”

It’s not a very good attempt at a joke, and I should know because terrible jokes are kind of what I do. “Maybe,” I say with a shrug. “Or maybe you just needed someone to talk to.”

This time she doesn’t answer, just considers me for a moment before looking out across the cliff’s edge again. But she doesn’t seem angry or tense, just thoughtful; maybe I’m right. I hope I’m right, because if anyone ever needed to talk before devolving into something self-destructive, it’s Nalissa Cousland.

* * *

The king, it seems, has made it his new mission to save me. Every time we spar or otherwise meet in the palace, he tries exceptionally hard to make me laugh. What it is he imagines I’ll do if he doesn’t lift my spirits I can’t say, but I suspect he considers both suicide and murder as possibilities. He definitely keeps looking at me like he’s worried about me, at any rate.

Fergus hasn’t noticed, but my brother hasn’t noticed much since he received a sealed missive he wouldn’t show me from a very discreet courier. I’m sure it contained gruesome and entirely fictional details of what Fallon went through under the Crows’ care, and he’s worried it would trigger a flashback for me.

Today is Saturday, nearly a week since my problematic incursion into Denerim, and though Alistair kept making pointed mentions at breakfast that he has no meetings scheduled today and therefore no idea what to do with himself, I volunteered nothing. I need some peace and quiet to deal with the week I’ve had, and I’m not likely to get that around him. He’s rather the antithesis of quiet, especially lately.

I’m curled on a couch in the library, my feet tucked under my skirt and a book of Storm Age poetry in my hands, when an unexpected face appears tentatively around the edge of the bookshelf. It’s an elven woman with black hair and blue-silver eyes that shine like liquid mercury in contrast with her dark skin. She greets me with a whispered, “My lady.”

“Ilana!” I reply, putting the book down on my lap and staring at her. For a moment, I can’t decide if I’m dreaming or not. “What in the world are you doing in Denerim?!”

“I—my apologies if I am unwanted, my lady,” she says with a deep curtsy. “Teyrn Cousland sent for me and I’ve just arrived. He said there was a ball to be held a week from today and that you would require my assistance.”

Of course he had. Admittedly, it had escaped me that it’s now only a week until the ball that is the reason Fergus and I are in the capital in the first place. It’s meant to celebrate Wintersend, which I’m certain is entirely intentional on the regent’s part. One of the old traditions of the annum involves the arrangement of marriages.

A wave of fear strikes me as I realize that the regent and my brother are probably deciding even now whether Alistair and I are a suitable match. Perhaps they even intend to make an announcement during the ball if they’ve decided we are. Perhaps my brother sending for my lady’s maid is the first sign.

“M-my lady?” Ilana asks gently, coming closer to look at me with concern. “Is everything all right?”

She looks like she wishes to offer me a gesture of comfort but is afraid of provoking me deeper into my own fears. Ilana has a deeper understanding of my state of mind after Fort Drakon than most, maybe even better than my brother. She was a housemaid before Highever fell, but became my lady’s maid during my recovery. She had probably spent more time in my presence afterward as I hid away in my room than anyone else in the castle.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” I say finally, putting on a smile for her benefit. “I just didn’t expect you, that’s all. Take the rest of the day off to recover from the journey. I’m sure Sylva needs attention after the trip.”

“She’s still in Highever with her pa,” Ilana says, and I frown.

“My brother bade you come without your daughter? Will she be all right without you?”

The elven woman smiles at my concern. “She’s going on two years now, my lady. She’s on solids and will be fine. My husband can see to her for a week or two while I’m gone, don’t you worry.”

Still I send Ilana back to my rooms to unpack her things and rest from her trip. It’s not as if I need any assistance this late in the day, anyway. But I do head toward the king’s study, distracted by the implications of Ilana’s arrival. Surely Alistair would know if it had already been decided, wouldn’t he?

But in the study, I find only a stack of unread missives and the regent, who is frowning and searching for the king, too. If Arl Eamon cannot find him either, then I have a hunch where he might be.

It takes a few wrong turns before I find my way back to the musty old door past the supply closet, but at last I do. When I open it, the king is indeed on the other side but he doesn’t notice me at first. He’s leaning out over the parapet, his forearms on the stone and the sea wind in his ears. His hair isn’t quite long enough to achieve a wind-tousled look, but it seems a bit less perfectly combed than on days he holds court. It suits him.

“It really is beautiful,” I say, leaning against the stone beside him. He jumps a little but tries to hide it. He doesn’t succeed, and I don’t quite manage to stifle my smile at it either. “A few shades more green and it could be the Waking Sea around Highever Castle.”

“You miss it, don’t you?” he asks, looking sideways at me. I keep staring at the ocean instead of meeting his gaze.

“Not really,” I admit quietly. I’m not even sure he can hear me over the wind and the waves, and I won’t repeat myself if he can’t. I don’t know why I’m saying it the first time. “I miss the memory more than anything, I think. Highever as it once was, when the people I loved were still alive. I love my brother too, of course, but… it’s not really home anymore without them.”

“It sounds like when I was a Warden,” he says after a short pause. “They were the closest thing to a family I’ve ever had. It’s the only time I felt like I belonged, really. But I lost them all at Ostagar, except Sereda. And then she died ending the Blight, and you can’t be a Warden anymore if you’re a king…”

“It could have been a good thing,” I say. He gives me a look like it’s just occurred to him I must be crazy, and I meet his eyes at last. “No really, I mean it. I went back home after everything was over. It wasn’t home anymore. Just a place that looked like it, with empty shadows where missing pieces should have been. It’s possible the Wardens would have been the same, without the people you knew in them.”

Alistair looks like he had never thought of it that way before, and spends a moment pondering the possibility. Maybe in an effort to put off the inevitable question, maybe genuinely from curiosity, I ask, “Was it like everything they say, being a Grey Warden? I’ve always wondered, since they came recruiting. They took one of our least hardy knights, if I’m perfectly honest, but somehow or other he won the tourney for the honor.”

“I can’t say I remember any Warden from Highever other than Duncan,” he begins, and that reminds me.

“Duncan! Yes, that’s the one that came recruiting. Half-Rivaini fellow, very pensive and deliberate. Honestly I’m surprised he didn’t see right through Jory. The man had all the backbone of a sea slug.”

“Jory,” Alistair repeats, as if the name rings a bell. “That’s right, he _was_ from Highever, wasn’t he?”

“Well, not for very long,” I say with a shrug. “He came from Redcliffe to marry a weaver and left with the Warden recruiter a year or so later. I assume he died at Ostagar with all the others?”

There’s an odd hesitation before the king says yes, then he clears his throat and changes the topic rather quickly. I decide I don’t need to press for details of whatever he isn’t telling me. “I didn’t know you met Duncan though. It’s a wonder he didn’t try to recruit _you_ , the way you fight.”

“Oh he did try, I made sure of that. I challenged Jory at the end and I beat him. But my father gave a speech about how he didn’t have so many children he could go sending them all to fight darkspawn, and that was the end of that.”

He shakes his head slowly. “He must have been trying to avoid a political scene by conscripting you. I wonder how different everything would have been, if he had.”

I sigh softly. “A great deal of people would still be dead, nothing would have changed that.”

Yet still in the back of my mind, I ponder a different what if. Perhaps if I had agreed to marry one of Howe’s sons when I was younger, it could have been different. Perhaps he wouldn’t have tried to take Highever by force, and everyone that had been lost could have been saved. Maybe Amaranthine’s army would have marched to Ostagar with Highever’s and the additional numbers would have bolstered the defense. Maybe that one selfish decision had doomed Highever and allowed the Blight to gain ground in the bargain, and I could have prevented it all.

It makes me feel sick to think of, and even the cool sea air does nothing to help. I’m terrified at the idea of marrying this man I barely know. I’m also terrified that refusing could be an even worse mistake.

“Are you alright?” Alistair asks, cutting into my thoughts. I swallow back the fear and look at him. He _looks_ perfectly kind and concerned. Everything I’ve ever seen of him tells me he is. But I’ve known him for two weeks and I knew Rendon Howe for my entire life. I know how well men can hide who they really are.

It’s hard to remember that though, looking at him. Alistair’s eyes are honey-brown in the morning light and seem so very sincere with worry. I’m talking myself in circles now, and I shake my head.

“I’m fine,” I lie, not as convincingly as I would have liked. Just what is so disarming about this man that makes it so difficult to keep up appearances?

He nods slowly, as if understanding. “They’ve told you as well, then,” he says matter-of-factly, and my heartbeat picks up twice as fast.

“T-told me what?” I ask, cursing the stammer and suddenly higher pitch to my voice.

“I thought I would be the only one so nervous,” he goes on, as if he heard the tone of my voice but not the words. “I mean, it’s—it’s crazy. Isn’t it crazy?”

“Alistair, what’s crazy?” I press, though I’m certain his panic is the same as mine and his eyes are just as uncertain.

“I… assumed they told you and that’s why you came to find me,” he says quietly, almost solemnly, like he had no idea he would be the one telling me the news. And by all rights, he shouldn’t be. I’ll have to have a talk with my brother about that. “They decided. They say we bring out who we used to be in each other, whatever that means. And they plan to make it official on Wintersend. Tradition, they say. As if anything about me is traditional.”

“To be fair, neither was King Calenhad,” I hear myself saying mildly. He smiles like he appreciates the thought, even if he doesn’t believe the comparison is merited. I’m fairly certain I’m too numb to smile back.

“It _is_ crazy though, isn’t it?” Alistair asks a little uncertainly. “I’m not the crazy one for being kind of…”

“Petrified?” I supply when his words fail. He laughs a little nervously and nods. “I think we would be crazy if we weren’t. Usually people have years for this kind of thing to be real.”

“Real,” he muses under his breath, looking back out at the waves. I watch his throat bob as he swallows hard, and for the first time, I really believe he hasn’t been acting these past few days. He’s as scared as I am and for some strange reason, it helps a little to realize that I’m not alone.

At least, until I find myself looking down at the churning waters and trying to swallow back a lump in my own throat when I realize that after Wintersend, I might never be alone again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait between updates, everyone! My PC died and it took a bit of doing to get a replacement, but the show must go on. <3


	10. Trust Exercises

Breakfast the morning after Eamon’s and Teyrn Cousland’s decision is a quiet affair. Whatever passed between the teyrn and his sister after she and I parted last night doesn’t seem to have been positive. They have none of their companionable banter today, and Nalissa is sitting stiffly and spearing sausages with her fork in a manner that suggests they must have done her a great personal wrong.

Finally, I give an awkward cough and try to break the silence. “You know, if you have a secret vendetta against breakfast meats, I could always ask the cook to make eggs instead.”

Nalissa raises an eyebrow at me and mutters that sausage is fine, but one corner of her mouth curls just so. Well, at least she isn’t angry at _me_.

“Are you sure?” I try again. “She makes a rather fantastic cheese omelet. Surely even you couldn’t wait long enough to rip it into tiny pieces before eating it.”

Still she doesn’t laugh, but she does smile and her shoulders relax a little. “Don’t be so sure about that,” she shoots back, looking up at me without raising her head so she’s glancing mischievously through her eyelashes. Quite unexpectedly, my heart leaps into my throat and I tug at my collar in surprise. What an odd reaction.

Teyrn Cousland chuckles. “Careful, Your Highness. Lissa’s never met a challenge she didn’t like. She’d probably eat the table setting if you told her she won’t.”

Something dark passes over Nalissa’s face as she looks over at her brother, and her words are barbed as she says, “I’d rather that than eat my words. That’s _your_ forte, after all.”

The teyrn’s face turns scarlet; whatever she was referencing with that comment is obviously not complimentary. “You forget yourself,” he snaps, and Nalissa spears another sausage so hard the plate protests but otherwise falls silent.

I try to give her a questioning look, but she’s too busy glaring at him to notice. The exchange worries me. After all, the last time they disagreed at the breakfast table, she assassinated someone in the middle of the night.

Before I can work out a safe way to press for information, Eamon appears to inform me that I have no supplicants arriving today. Apparently this is by his design, and instead I get to spend the day with him and his wife Isolde, learning how to dance.

I’m still trying to decide whether I’m dreading the dancing or the time near Isolde more when Teyrn Cousland volunteers Nalissa to practice with me. She stares at him and he adds, “Unless you’d rather spend the day with me, dear sister.”

If anyone could ever learn to physically look daggers at someone, I think it would be Nalissa Cousland, but she says nothing and simply rises to go with Eamon and me. Once we’re out of the dining room, I touch her arm to convince her to fall back a ways from the arl and whisper, “What was all that about?”

“Nothing,” she says quietly, but the way she crosses her arms loosely and looks away from me makes me wonder. It’s an oddly soft gesture for her, without her customary raised chin or defiant edge to her voice. It makes her look vulnerable and that stirs something protective in me, probably a remnant of my templar or Grey Warden training.

“It didn’t seem like nothing,” I say slowly, watching her with some concern. “It still doesn’t. You seem…”

I trail off, and her voice wavers a little over the word “I.” She stiffens when she realizes, straightens her shoulders, and tries again: “I am perfectly fine.”

I had just thought yesterday she might finally be opening up to me, but now she’s stand-offish again and I don’t know how to get a straight answer out of her. It’s frustrating, not just because I had thought she was moving past this but also because it seems like whatever she won’t tell me is painful and I want to help.

I’m still trying to work out a joke to see if I can at least make her smile when Eamon ushers us into the ballroom. It’s bigger and emptier than I remember, except for Isolde. Eamon introduces her to Nalissa, and Nalissa gives a polite half bow that Isolde doesn’t deserve. The arlessa only nods in response, and I can see Nalissa’s eyebrow rise pointedly but apparently Isolde doesn’t.

Learning to dance, as it turns out, is yet another thing I’m not very good at. I’m glad to have Nalissa as a partner though, considering my alternative probably would’ve been Isolde and I might have just jumped out of a window once she started giving me looks down her nose the first time I stepped on her foot.

Nalissa is patient, if not at her most attentive. Her mind is clearly still elsewhere, but she doesn’t miss a step anyway unless I’m standing on her toes at the time.

“You know, Alistair,” Isolde says at length, “it is usually helpful if you dance on your _own_ feet.”

I can feel myself turning scarlet, and Nalissa’s lips purse. I think for a moment she’s becoming as irritated as Isolde, until she speaks and her voice is low and gentle. “Ignore her. Just relax and stop overthinking it. Take a deep breath and pretend you’re sparring—just think about where you want to go, don’t focus too much on how you get there. It’ll get smoother with practice.”

When I do as she says, I do at least stop stumbling over my own feet—and hers—as much. Not quite well enough yet to meet Eamon and Isolde’s standards apparently, but at least I become confident enough I won’t literally fall on my face.

I’m finally starting to feel like I’m catching on when it happens. There’s a crashing sound and a scream, and I jerk my head toward the sound reflexively. Strange how after all this time, my mind is still primed to head toward sounds of distress.

It seems one of the servants that had been cleaning the light fixtures for the upcoming ball has slipped and tumbled backward off a ladder. The man appears to have tried to catch himself on his way down, and took most of the weight of the fall on one arm. It’s badly broken, jutting at an unnatural angle with blood pouring from a lump on his forearm that probably means the bone has actually pierced the skin.

Eamon is shouting at another of the servants to get Venya and Isolde looks like she might be sick. Neither of them will be much use, and I’m a breath away from running over to see if I can help when fingernails bite sharply into my shoulder.

Nalissa, I realize with a start, has a look of terror frozen on her face. Her pupils are dilated and her eyes slightly out of focus, and her hand still in mine is shaking. I’ve only seen that look on her face once before, but I recognize it: it’s the same one she wore the first night she arrived in Denerim, when she had crushed a wine glass in her hand.

Before anyone else might notice, I lean closer and call her name gently, as I remember her brother did to bring her out of her memory that night. Her grip tightens for a short moment, and then she nearly flinches away from me but for my grip on her waist. Finally she blinks and looks at me, but I can see in her eyes that she’s still a little lost.

“It’s okay,” I promise her quietly, squeezing her hand in what I hope is a reassuring way. Her breathing starts to even out, and I try not to think about why she would react so strongly to the sight of a broken arm. What else had they _done_ to her in Fort Drakon?

I don’t get the chance to ask, even if I would have. Nalissa pulls away from me quickly, clears her throat like she means to say something, and then shakes her head and disappears out the door. I move to help the injured man, but even after Venya arrives and takes him away to the infirmary, Nalissa doesn’t return. She doesn’t join me for lunch, then she skips our usual sparring match, and doesn’t come down to dinner after that. I’m starting to wonder if she’s afraid to explain what happened and decided to avoid me when an elven woman I’ve never met turns up in my study.

The woman has dark skin and silver eyes with a worried expression in them. She’s also bowing profusely, as if she’s afraid I might scold her.

“All my apologies for interrupting,” she says timidly. “I will leave immediately if Your Majesty commands, but I am searching for my lady.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who that is,” I say slowly, and the woman looks mortified at my words.

“Oh no, I did not set out to be rude, Your Majesty! I am in the service of Lady Cousland of Highever. She has not returned to her rooms all day, and I have searched the library and the gardens, and I—I am worried.”

She speaks so quickly it takes me a moment to sort through what she’s just said, but once I do, I discover that I’m worried too. “Where would she go?” I ask, standing abruptly. “Would she leave the palace?”

“I don’t know,” the woman admits, wringing her hands. “My lady is… she can be rash when she’s upset. In Highever, she would walk the battlements or climb the bell tower of the Chantry, but I don’t know where else to search for her.”

At that, I think I do. I convince the worried maid to head back to Nalissa’s rooms in case she’s returned there and then head toward the servants’ corridors. Sure enough, when I pause outside a familiar weathered old door, I can hear her voice speaking faintly on the other side.

“—not that that would have stopped you,” she’s saying when I open the door. She’s sitting on the parapet, lit only by the stars and the waxing moon, her legs dangling down into the dark abyss off the cliffside. How she managed to get there wearing a skirt I can’t begin to guess, and to make it even more dangerous, she’s also taking a drink from a bottle that’s almost guaranteed to be alcoholic in nature.

I approach her carefully, trying not to startle her. She could fall off the edge if she jumps, but as she lowers the bottle, she spies me over her shoulder and simply lets out a long sigh.

“I should have figured you’d come look for me when I missed dinner. What, did Fergus send you?”

“Your maid, actually,” I answer as mildly as I can manage, still watching her closely. If she falls, I need to be ready to catch her. “She was worried you might do something rash. She didn’t say exactly what, but I’m thinking sitting on the edge of a cliff drinking probably falls under that category.”

“She worries too much,” Nalissa answers quietly, but she looks back down at the blackness of the rolling waters far below as she does. “Say one time you wish you’d died instead of someone else, and everyone thinks you’re going to jump off a building when they’re not looking, like that would broker some kind of deal for a trade.” She shakes her head and whispers, “Maybe I just like watching the sea.”

I hesitate, then lean on the parapet next to her. “I used to say that once,” I admit, and she looks at me in surprise. The intensity of her pale eyes almost makes me stumble over my words, but I go on, “I lost my mentor at Ostagar. Duncan, the man that came to Highever recruiting? He was the Warden-Commander of Ferelden. He invoked the Right of Conscription to keep me from swearing vows to the Chantry I didn’t believe in. I would have been a terrible templar, but I was a good Grey Warden. And I never got to repay him for that.”

Something shifts in her eyes, an emotion I can’t quite place. “You wanted to run away and he saved you disappointing everyone by actually doing it,” she says quietly. “I understand. That’s what I wanted, when I dueled Jory.”

I frown at that, definitely _not_ understanding. “Why? You’re a teyrn’s daughter. You could have done anything you wanted.”

Nalissa chuckles darkly and shakes her head again, taking another drink from the bottle she holds before answering, “You severely overestimate the options that come with ‘lady of Highever.’ Expectations are a powerful thing. My father used to joke that I would be teyrn and teyrna both one day, but that’s really what most people expected of me. Even that bastard Howe thought if I’d marry Thomas, he’d be a teyrn.”

Her lip curls in disgust and her grip tightens on the bottle, but at least she doesn’t shatter it this time. She notices where I’m looking and offers it to me, and just to get it out of her hands I take it. It tastes sweet and hot, and vaguely familiar. “Is this Antivan rum?” I ask, distracted.

She nods and admits, “I may have borrowed it from your cellar.”

I’m not sure if I’m more surprised or impressed. “Isn’t the cellar locked?”

Nalissa snickers and waggles her fingers theatrically. “I’ve yet to meet a lock that could stop me.”

I watch her carefully for a moment, then decide she may just have had enough to drink to finally talk to me. “Except the ones in Fort Drakon, you mean?”

Her smile vanishes immediately, and she takes the rum back again. “Except those,” she says quietly. “Though I can’t say I had a real chance to try. It’s rather hard to break locks when you’re stripped down and bound wrist and ankle.”

I hesitate, swallowing hard as I absorb that disturbing bit of information, but still I ask as gently as I can manage, “They broke your arm, didn’t they? That’s why you froze up like that.”

Nalissa takes a very long drink this time, and even when she lowers the bottle, her eyes stay closed. “Not mine,” she whispers, leaning dangerously forward as if she’s afraid of the words. “Roderick’s.”

Her eyes open, staring up at the stars like they can give her answers. Her eyes shine more than usual, and I realize with a start she’s on the verge of tears. “He had been my knight too long,” she goes on, her voice so quiet it’s hard to hear over the sound of the ocean below. “They put us in the same cell, and when they came for me, he wouldn’t have it. The idiot tackled them. Fully armed and armored guards, and him already injured, and he _tackled them_.” She sounds almost angry, but tears spill down her cheeks. “They beat him half to death. Broke his nose, his ribs, his wrist and sword arm in at least three places. He still tried to fight them. So they ran him through with a spear.”

I let out a long, low breath and manage to say, “Maker, Nalissa, I’m sorry.”

“He wouldn’t be,” she whispers, turning her head to wipe her face with the back of her hand, like it could keep me from seeing her tears. “He knew what they would do to him. Had some idea what they would do to me, I’m sure. His heart was too soft to see it.”

“But not yours?” I ask, almost as quietly.

Nalissa looks back at me, her eyes dry now but still sorrowful, not flinty as I’m used to seeing them when she talks like this. _In vino veritas_ , as the Tevinter say. “Broken things aren’t soft; they’re sharp and bitter and deadly. All I had left in me in that place was hatred and pain and hard edges. _That’s_ why Howe couldn’t break me—I already was.”

“You’re not broken,” I object, covering her empty hand with one of mine and squeezing it reassuringly. She gives me an odd look but says nothing. “And you’re certainly not bitter or hateful. What was it you said once? You’re not anything they tried to make you?”

For a moment, she looks like she might cry again. Then quite unexpectedly, she spins on the parapet and throws her arms around me, her head resting on my shoulder. I freeze in shock until my brain finally works out that she’s hugging me, and I should probably return it. That’s the proper etiquette in this situation, right? _Is_ there proper etiquette for this situation?

“Thank you, Alistair,” she whispers. I’m glad I convinced her to call me by my name, because it shakes me out of my discomfort and I remember how to move my arms to return the gesture. The last thing I want is to make her feel foolish. If she remembers all of this in the morning, anyway.

* * *

I wake feeling like a fool for how I behaved yesterday, and like a jerk on top of that for how much I worried Ilana. She comes in bearing a basin of warm water just as I’m getting out of bed, and she’s visibly relieved to find me still here. I try to apologize but she won’t have it; she never will.

Between our combined efforts, I manage to look composed at breakfast and not like I drank nearly half a bottle of rum the night before. Not that drinking a half bottle of rum still has quite the same effect on me it once did. The regent announces that since Alistair’s dancing lessons were cut short by the accident yesterday, we will try again today.

Fergus raises his eyebrows at me, but I ignore him. If he doesn’t want to tell me important things, I can do the same. I continue fuming at him until we return to the ballroom and someone else draws my ire.

“Why does she talk to you like that?” I murmur to Alistair, moving my chin subtly toward the regent’s wife as we spin.

“Isolde? Oh, she doesn’t _hate_ me…”

I arch an eyebrow at him. “I didn’t ask why she hated you, but now I definitely will.”

Alistair frowns at me and I turn my eyes pointedly toward the regent and his wife as I point out, “Better not. They don’t need to hear us to see you scowling like a scholar thrice your age.”

He tries to smooth away the expression, but really only succeeds in looking like he’s forgotten something of indeterminate importance. I laugh and turn us so they can’t see his face, because at that he starts sulking.

“I think I’ve figured out why I like you,” I tell him with a grin. “You have _the_ most honest face I’ve ever seen. I think if you tried to lie, it might literally paint itself across your forehead in bright letters.” He blushes and I add quickly, “Yes, just like that! Only it would actually spell out the words, ‘I’m lying,’ I’m fairly certain.”

“You haven’t actually said you like me before,” he points out, and I can feel my smile freeze in place. He took that a direction I hadn’t been planning, but he isn’t wrong to notice.

“Of course I do, or I wouldn’t bother spending more time with you than necessary,” I say as honestly as possible. “I thought I wouldn’t, on my way here. I assumed you would be as prideful as King Cailan, or perhaps as deceitful as Rendon Howe.” I pause to meet his eyes and notice that they’re caramel-colored in the pale light of the morning. They’re also wide in something like surprise, and I admit softly, “Maybe that’s just what I was afraid of. But I am quite glad you’re not.”

The blush doesn’t fade, and he grins sheepishly on top of it. “I may have been afraid you’d be some kind of snobby airhead, so I can’t say anything.”

“Ouch,” I feign insult, and his grin only broadens.

“I’m kind of glad you aren’t too,” he admits.

“Are you really?” I raise an eyebrow pointedly. “Even if I tell you I still remember you’re dodging the question I asked?”

Alistair sighs and fidgets. This takes the form of his fingers tugging awkwardly at the bodice of my dress, and I have to stifle the urge to laugh. I can’t let him know I’m ticklish there, or I’ll definitely never hear the end of it, but my lips are betraying me by twitching upward anyway.

“The arlessa… well, she’s kind of the reason I was sent away to the Chantry,” he says softly, and the urge to laugh evaporates. “Eamon raised me in Redcliffe at King Maric’s request as I’m sure you know, but when he married Isolde, she didn’t like that. I think she was afraid I was Eamon’s son, and he wasn’t in any position to break his oath to the king and tell her the truth.”

I lead our waltz further away from the arl and arlessa and Alistair goes on, detailing how he was first forced out of the castle proper to sleep in the stables or the kennels, so embarrassed it’s like he believes one simply does that with unwanted children, and then ends with how he was exiled to a monastery to become a templar. At age _ten_. It all makes me irrationally angry, for something that happened more than a decade ago. Maybe because he still seems half afraid of her, even though he’s the _blighted king_ now.

“And you still let her snap at you that way?!” I hiss through my teeth, determinedly looking only at him so I don’t accidentally glare daggers at the bitch in question. “You’re the king and she had you _thrown away_ , like—like you clashed with her favorite dress or something!”

He looks progressively more alarmed as I rant, as if suddenly afraid the regent can read our lips from where he’s standing. I find that I don’t give a damn if he can. “No, that’s not—look, I was pretty insufferable about it too,” he tries to hedge, but I scoff at what a ludicrous defense that is.

“You were a _child_! If you could just throw away children for being a pain in the neck from time to time, we’d all have grown up in orphanages!”

“Really, it wasn’t like… Please, just… forget I said anything,” he mumbles. “Let’s talk about something else. Your opinions on nugs, your favorite type of cheese—your mabari! Dante, right? I still haven’t been properly introduced. He’s been here as long as you have, isn’t that rude?”

Somehow this line of inquiry leads to the promise to take him to meet my dog once his dancing lesson is over. When Alistair acquires the confidence to lead and manages not to stumble for an entire circuit around the ballroom, the regent smiles and declares this excellent progress. I nod curtly, but have no polite smile for him. Alistair may be able to, but I can’t help blaming Eamon as much as his wife for the disturbing things I’ve learned today.

It’s still too early for lunch when the regent releases us, so I retrieve Dante from my room. I almost laugh at just the look on Alistair’s face when we meet him in the garden, and then I do when Dante bounds up to him, sniffs his shoe, and promptly jumps around him barking.

“Is this a good reaction or bad?” Alistair wonders, actually spinning to keep the hyperactive mabari in sight. “Does he like me or want to eat me? Quickly, I need to decide if I should tell Eamon he’s going to have to find a new king.”

“He wants to play,” I tell him with a grin. “The poor boy’s been cooped up most of the time since we’ve been here. I think he might agree to play fetch with a burglar at this point.”

“Well, we can’t have that!” Alistair says, daring to pet Dante’s head. The oversized warhound barks happily and wags his stump tail.

“Go for the ears,” I whisper conspiratorially, and Dante looks at me like I’ve given away his weakness before forgetting and lolling his tongue happily when his ears are scratched.

“You’re perfectly welcome to have him with you in the palace,” Alistair tells me, looking very much like he’d like to sit in the grass to play and probably would if the regent wouldn’t appear from nowhere to scold him like a child. “He’s hardly a proper guard dog if you don’t, right?”

I hesitate, tracing a scar on the back of my hand in consideration. “Are you sure? I know it’s Ferelden and dogs are kind of expected, but I don’t want to… have him in the way or anything.”

He catches my eye and asks wryly, “The teyrn told you not to, didn’t he?”

I try not to grimace or look as uncomfortable as I feel. “It’s… complicated,” I hedge. “He’s a good dog—he’s smart, all mabari are. But he doesn’t really understand what happened when… He just knows he lost me for a long time and I wasn’t the same when he found me again.”

Dante whines and despite the ear scratches, comes back to my side and nudges my hand with his nose. I stroke the line from his nose to between his eyes like he likes, and he quiets. “When I first came back to Highever,” I admit in a whisper, “one of the knights… startled me, and Dante would’ve taken off his hand if it wasn’t for his gauntlet. Fergus doesn’t trust him not to do it again.”

When I look up again, Alistair’s jaw is tight and there’s something I can’t read in his eyes. Whatever it is makes them less soft, and in them I can see the Grey Warden he once was.

“It sounds more like he doesn’t trust _you_ ,” he observes quietly. I can’t argue—I know Fergus still watches me at every sudden noise or mention of Rendon Howe—but the accusation isn’t a fair one either.

I sit down on one of the stone benches with a sigh, and Dante puts his head in my lap forlornly. Somehow, he always knows how I feel. “My brother has his reasons,” I say, watching my mabari as I pet him gently so I don’t have to look up. “You don’t understand what I was like, when I woke up in that hospital. I would’ve attacked Andraste Herself if She’d moved toward me too suddenly.” I force a miserable smile and mumble, “There’s a reason they say I’m crazy; I know you’ve heard it.”

“I haven’t heard any such thing,” he lies, and I freeze my pained smile in place because the alternative is the burning behind my eyes. He sits beside me and captures my hand as it strokes Dante’s fur, and I look up at him with my best indignant glare. It melts away when I see his face, because his eyes are soft again and so earnest I can’t hold onto the feigned anger.

“I wouldn’t believe it if I did. I think you’re one of the strongest people I’ve ever met, as a matter of fact. And bear in mind, I knew Sereda Aeducan.” He smiles, and in a fairly obvious attempt to distract me, adds, “You’d have liked her, I think. Either that or you’d have disagreed about something and fought to the death. I still haven’t decided which.”

I consider him for a moment, noticing the tenseness in his jaw contrasting the gentleness in his eyes, a scar on the knuckle of his hand that’s so warm over mine. I can’t decide what it is I feel, so I change focus and consider his last few words instead. The sentiment sounds bitterly familiar, so I look back at Dante instead of at him as I wonder aloud, “This Sereda… you speak very fondly of her. Did you love her?”

“What?” Alistair asks in surprise, and then laughs. “No, no. I was more like her annoying little brother, if anything. What, can you really picture me romancing a girl while we fled across the countryside, collecting allies against the Blight?”

I shrug. “Why not? You can be charming enough. Though that does sound a bit like it should be the plot of a bad romance serial.”

He clears his throat and I glance at him. He’s _blushing_ , rather furiously in fact. I’m about to retract the joke when he stammers, “Wh— _charming_? Me?”

His voice is suspiciously higher-pitched than it was a moment ago, and I raise an eyebrow at him. Somehow he manages to blush even darker, all the way to the tips of his ears. He coughs and fishes for a subject change. “Well, what about you then? You spent a good deal of time traveling with Lord Wulff…”

Both my eyebrows shoot up this time and I pull my hand free to cross my arms at him. “Evander is _my friend_ , and he was married and to be a father soon, as I believe I’ve mentioned.”

“Really, never anything more?” he asks, running a hand through his hair and looking almost a little too disinterested. “He’s got that whole tall, dark, and handsome thing going for him though. Isn’t that what women like?”

“It sounds like it’s what _you_ like, the way you’re describing him,” I counter. He reddens even more, and I think that at this point, you could fry an egg on the king’s face. It’s annoyingly endearing when I want to be angry at him. “Certainly, it seems to be Rienna’s preference, and our mothers might have tried to match us more than once when we were younger, but Evander has never been more than my friend.”

Alistair looks almost relieved, like he’s about to consider the subject dropped and perform another verbal dodge, but I’m not about to let him get away so easily. I narrow my eyes and press, “Now then, what was your real question? If I would step out on you if we’re married? Is _that_ what you think of me, _my king_?”

My rage is carefully moderated, but it’s still raw enough to carry me through. I don’t even realize until after I’ve said it that I’ve finally voiced the word _married_. A spike of fear pierces my chest, but I push it down beneath the indignation.

“What? No!” he objects quickly, and he actually waves his hands in front of himself like he can physically push away the accusation. “That’s not what I meant at all! I just…” He fumbles a moment for words under my glare, and then finally manages to say quietly, “Honestly, I think you would give up anything to be who you think you have to be. I don’t want to be the reason for that. If you—if there is someone, or if there’s any reason you don’t want to go through with this really, I—I just want to know.”

I’m surprised out of my anger, and the look on his face makes me feel guilty for having been in the first place. His soft brown eyes are… almost vulnerable, they’re so sincere, something I’m entirely unwilling to be with someone I’ve known so short a time, which only piles on the guilt more.

“No,” I admit despite myself, a little disarmed by his sudden change of tone. “There’s no one. I wasn’t exaggerating when I said Howe killed everyone I’ve ever loved but my brother.”

He looks surprised at first, then horrified and sympathetic as what I’ve just said sets in, and Maker, I hate it. If someone offered to trade of my soul for no one ever looking at me with pity again, I would accept in a heartbeat.

“I’m sorry,” Alistair whispers, and though I can see he means it, I don’t want to hear it anyway.

It feels like trying to breathe sand as I grind through a clenched jaw, “Don’t. You did what I couldn’t and killed the bastard responsible. That’s more than enough.”

I try to swallow back the tightness in my throat but it doesn’t work, and I shake my head. “I should go. I need to… go think, I believe. Come on, Dante.”

Alistair still looks concerned as I stand and leave, but I barely see it. The rest of my vision is taken up by the memory of Roderick’s green eyes and his fading voice whispering the command for me to live.

At the time, I had promised I would but fully believed the words hollow. I had only wished to give him hope before Howe had me killed too, and I had never regretted that. But now a sinking feeling in my stomach has me wondering if the warmth I can still feel on the back of my hand is a betrayal of everything he’d really wanted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for skipping a week there! I had strep throat and a fairly consistent fever last week, but am right as rain now!


	11. Forgiveness

Nalissa skips lunch again or finds it elsewhere, but it doesn’t really surprise me she doesn’t want to look at me after the conversation we’d just had. I’m not holding out hope she’ll want to spar with me today either, but when I approach the training arena and a woman is standing just outside, my heart rises hopefully.

Before I’m too close though, I can see the figure is too small and dark to be Nalissa. I quickly realize it’s her maid, the elven woman that came to find me the day before, and my excitement turns to worry.

“Is she missing again?” I ask, by way of a piss-poor but concerned greeting.

“No, ser—Your Majesty,” she amends immediately, bowing quickly. “My lady is safely in her room, but has sent me to inform you she does not feel up to training with you today.”

I frown and ask, “Is she alright? Is she sick?”

The elven woman looks troubled, and I mean to speak to her by name when I realize I don’t know it. She looks mortified when I ask and only bows lower. “I-I apologize for neglecting proper introduction. I am Ilana, sire. I have been lady-in-waiting to Lady Cousland since her injuries.”

I smile and nod as encouragingly as I can manage. “Thank you for your message, Ilana. I’m just worried about Nalissa. _Is_ she sick?”

“Not as such,” Ilana evades, looking very nervous. “My lady is whole and hale. But she is… she is sick for the past. She would not have anyone see.”

I consider that, and it weighs like a boulder on my chest because I can guess the reason why. I’ve pried where I shouldn’t. No matter how good my intentions, I’ve dredged up more memories she isn’t prepared to deal with.

I hadn’t meant to, just to make sure there wasn’t another reason for the sadness behind her eyes. As stupid and insecure as it probably sounded to ask, I’m not a _complete_ idiot. I know a request from the king’s regent isn’t exactly something easily waved aside, so I had wanted to know if she was being pushed into this against her will. If she had said she was in love with someone back home, I would have gone to Eamon immediately. I hadn’t expected the epiphany that she had loved someone killed in the attack.

Ilana shifts her weight from one foot to the other and clears her throat softly to bring me out of my own head. She looks mildly terrified, whether by interrupting my thoughts or what she has to say, I can’t tell. “Sire? I… My lady would not have had me say why she refuses. But I think you should know. I am… I am told after the teyrn departs, she will remain here. With you.”

I’m still not certain on that myself, but I settle for answering, “It looks that way. Why do you ask?”

The maid bows almost to the floor this time, her hands trembling as she does. “I’m very sorry for the presumption, Your Majesty; I mean no disrespect. I just… I beg of you, please allow me to stay on here as my lady’s maid.”

Whatever I had expected, that wasn’t it. I’m only more confused as I say slowly, “I think that’s up to the teyrn. I can’t go stealing his servants along with his sister.”

Ilana frowns and her eyes narrow, looking like nothing so much as quicksilver behind glass. “His lordship doesn’t understand,” she objects. “My lady is… is not always as calm as she appears. Sometimes she isn’t herself, or is gripped by something else, especially as she sleeps. Her maid must know how to speak to her. Another maid might be frightened when she is like this, might not understand.”

“Oh,” I say aloud, and for a moment that’s all I can think to say. It makes sense, of course, that Nalissa would have night terrors, considering everything she’s been through. It was probably stupid of me not to realize. I knew older Wardens, men of Duncan’s age and greater, that had still had them about battles long past.

“They will say she is crazy,” Ilana goes on, pleading. “It hurts her to hear them whisper, and it isn’t true. My lady is good and kind and… and she doesn’t want anyone to know.”

“Even me,” I say, realizing what she was trying to tell me, and the elven woman wrings her hands.

“I think she will forgive me,” she says, something in her tone telling me that she has already thought at length about this. “If you are to be married, you would find out sooner or later. But please, sire, no one else should. I will… I will stay on my own, if I must, until my husband and daughter are able to follow. I will find space in the alienage if there are no quarters for servants. But I must stay with my lady.”

I look at her in surprise. From the sound of it, she has a family with a place in Highever castle, and so the insistence of her request throws me off. “You would give up all of that just to stay here? Why?”

Finally Ilana meets my gaze, and I realize abruptly the impression of quicksilver in her eyes was them filling with tears. “Sire, I would have none of it _without_ my lady. When the castle was attacked, I was heavy with child. My Kallen sneaked to me from the stable to get me out, but there was fighting everywhere. We fled from soldiers and found my lady and her ladyship, the Teyrna Eleanor, with one of their guards.

“Anyone else would have seen my husband an able-bodied man and ordered him to help them escape. But my lady told him to get me out instead. She gave us her guard as an escort. We would have died that night without her, and our daughter never born, I am certain. She told us where to flee, and we were safe in Waking Sea just as she had said. I never thought to see her again after that terrible night, but she came back. She came back broken in places she had been strong and rough in places she had been broken, but no less for any of it. There is nothing I would not risk to repay her. I would not be begging a favor of a king if there was.”

Again I find that I don’t know what to say. The maid isn’t wrong, from what I’ve seen of most Fereldan nobles. For some reason, it makes my chest ache to realize how soft Nalissa’s heart really is under all her affected pride and stubbornness. Perhaps because it makes me see more clearly how deeply it must have hurt her to be betrayed.

“I will talk to the teyrn,” I tell Ilana at last. “I can promise no more than that, but I will try.”

“Maker bless you, Your Majesty,” she says, bowing again. “Thank you for agreeing to speak with me. I was so afraid you would turn me away. I am glad my lady has found someone to let into her heart with kindness in his own again.”

That gives me pause. This woman served at Highever before the attack, she had said. Would it be wrong to ask? Do I really want to? I’m not sure of either answer, but as usual, my curiosity gets the better of me anyway. I look around to make sure no one has entered the training grounds for some reason and then ask quietly, “Who was he, this man that she loved? She wouldn’t speak of him.”

Ilana looks like she might cry again, and her hands fidget at the lace on her sleeves. It’s a familiar mannerism, and I wonder if she picked up the habit from Nalissa, or vice-versa. “No, I’m sure she wouldn’t. My lady tries not to think of him, if she can.”

“But who _was_ he?” I press. “One of the lords of the Bannorn?”

The elven maid hesitates, still clutching at her sleeve. “I… don’t know that it’s my place to speak of Ser Gilmore. My lady might _not_ forgive me for that.”

My eyebrows rise despite myself. “ _Ser_ Gilmore? The man she loved was a knight?”

Ilana chews at her lower lip, probably upset with herself for letting that slip. Finally, she gives a little sigh and relents. “My lady does not see nobles and lessers as some do. We are all her people and she defends us, every one. Is it so unusual that she would then fall in love with the man that defended _her_?”

That’s when it strikes me like a sudden blow to the gut, another tally in the Alistair-are-you-an-idiot column. I should have put it together long before, just from the way Nalissa spoke of him. From the tears in her eyes as she did. When I had asked about Lord Wulff, I had been asking about the wrong traveling companion.

“ _Her_ knight,” I say, remembering what she had called him. “What was his given name?” Ilana hesitates again, and I ask pointedly, “Was it Roderick?”

The elven woman says nothing, but her eyes speak for her before she abruptly looks away. That was why Nalissa had reacted so violently to the broken arm, why Lord Wulff had accompanied her to free her knight, why she had had to be drunk to talk about the man’s death. He had also been her lover. For some reason, I had been picturing an older man to be entrusted with the security of the teyrn’s own daughter, but hadn’t Nalissa told me that she had grown up alongside many of the Highever knights?

I don’t know what to do with this information now that I have it, but I thank Ilana anyway. She bows and disappears before I can think of any more intrusive questions, leaving me alone with a training dummy and my own oddly conflicted thoughts.

* * *

When my door opens, I expect it to be Ilana’s return, but instead it’s Fergus who steps inside my room. He’s wearing his most serious I’m-the-teyrn expression, which comes complete with wrinkles around his mouth much like our father’s.

“Lissa, we must speak quickly,” he says, all business and no brotherly lightness to his tone. “Yes I know, you’re angry with me until the next Age, but this is important. I need to know if you feel safe here.”

I had already forgotten our argument in the wake of this morning’s events, but I would have anyway at his severity. What does that even mean? Does he know something I don’t? My mind leaps to the mercenary I killed, to the Crow in the marketplace, to the shadow of Fort Drakon looming over the palace as it always does. It’s that last one that makes my heart pound the fastest, but I try not to let my panic show in my eyes.

“I-I don’t understand,” I manage to say, cursing the stammer as it slips out. Fergus ignores it, steps forward and puts his hands on my shoulders firmly and for a moment, I don’t hear anything. There’s a ringing in my ears, a current freezing me so fast in place I’m not sure I even breathe. I swear my eyes vibrate, making everything swim out of focus. It’s Dante’s low growl that pulls me back to the surface.

It’s Fergus, only Fergus. He’s not trying to threaten me, just get me to focus, and I’m doing the opposite. My mouth is so dry it’s difficult to swallow, but I try anyway because my tongue feels like sandpaper. It doesn’t help.

“I… I don’t think I caught that,” I choke out with a tongue like lead and a stomach suddenly turned inside-out.

Dante calms a little at my words, but I feel him stand beside me anyway. He’s warm and solid and comforting, even if his paws are on the hem of my skirt. Fergus lets his grip slacken a little and I find that breathing becomes leagues easier.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you; I’m sorry.” My brother’s voice sounds a little thin, like he’s speaking from yards away instead of inches, but I nod to let him know I’m listening. “I don’t doubt that you’re safe here. It’s the royal palace, for Maker’s sake, and the king seems to have taken a personal interest in your well-being—as he should, at this juncture. I just want to make sure that’s how you _feel_. No… no panicking, right, Lissa? No forgetting where you are, no startling and jumping for your blades?”

I can’t honestly answer no, but I can’t convince him that I can keep myself under control if he knows I’m still having the flashbacks either. I turn my insecurities into annoyance with a well-practiced ease and mutter, “I’m perfectly fine if no one lunges and grabs at me, thank you. Why?”

Fergus sighs and his expression relaxes just a bit. “Good. I’m glad—I really am. Because I have to leave for Highever within the hour and I wouldn’t have known what to do if you still felt vulnerable here.”

I’m stunned by the abruptness of this declaration, and I sputter uselessly for a moment before I manage to ask why.

“I’ve just received a messenger,” Fergus explains. “There’s been a discovery of some sort, probably a vein of gold or lyrium, around the Black Coast. _Three_ of the nearby freeholders are on the verge of warring with each other over who owns the land it’s on.”

“Bann Harlow or Lieutenant Radnor can’t handle it?” I attempt, but I know it’s futile. Radnor would have been the one to send the runner; if it was within his power to defuse, he would have already.

As expected, Fergus shakes his head. “Bann Harlow’s hands are tied because one of the freeholders in question is her daughter’s husband. Radnor can’t talk any sense into them. Says he needs someone with more political clout.”

“I could go with you,” I offer, but with even less hope than the attempt before. Fergus fixes me with a longsuffering look.

“There’s no guarantee this will be resolved before Wintersend,” he says patiently. “You must be here for the annum and the ball, and I must go hold the teyrnir together. You know how important this is, Lissa.”

I nod again, but it’s mechanical, stiff. It feels like Fergus is already gone—he will be very shortly, and I’ll be left alone here even sooner than expected. As if he reads my mind, he pulls me into a hug.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promises. “After all, I can’t miss my little sister’s betrothal, now can I?”

If he thought _that_ was going to help, he’s sorely mistaken. I watch helplessly as he packs, then accompany him as far as the palace gates, standing uselessly as he disappears into the coach and it in turn vanishes into the city and beyond. It feels even more final than I had imagined, being left alone in a strange city. Fergus was my last tie to the home that’s now no longer mine.

I feel lost, and I hate it. I don’t want to be alone here, not a contact in the world except this king I’m meant to marry. Even if he does have gentle eyes and an easy smile. Maybe especially because of them.

But my brother’s departure _does_ mean there’s no one to tell me Dante must remain in my room. By the time I’ve fetched him and he’s bounding down the steps after me, I know where I’m going. If I’m to stay in Denerim, I’m going to get to know the city the way I did Highever. One of the guards shoots me a curious look as I leave the palace, but no one stops me and Dante falls into step happily at my side.

We head for the market district first, mostly because it’s familiar. Thankfully the Brylands aren’t milling among the crowd today, but a few familiar faces are. I run into Bann Alfstanna Eremon outside the Gnawed Noble, and when she invites me for a drink, I accept with as much courtesy as I can muster. She’s closer in age to Fergus than to me, but she remembers me well enough that her kind words sound like more than platitudes. It helps that she understands what I’ve been through better than most; her older brother was a prisoner of Teyrn Loghain during the Blight, so she’s wiser than to ask prying questions.

After an hour or so of wine and pleasant conversation, I head back into the market to explore. A couple of boys about Oren’s age squeal over Dante and beg to play with him, and it takes everything in me to keep my smile in place. The merchants appear to have mostly recovered from the Blight’s choking off their wares, but the tradesmen aren’t quite there yet. I make a note to commission a new set of daggers or lockpicks when I get the chance, but the only purchase I make is from a flower stand. They have snowspurs.

The bouquet makes my heart ache for more reasons than one. The flowers smell of seaside cliffs and chill spring winds and _home_. But they also remind me of stolen moments away from prying eyes, of heavy words and heated touches and the promise of a future that would never come.

Fort Drakon’s shadow reaching toward me in the afternoon sunlight sends a chill down my spine, but after stroking Dante’s ears for comfort, I head toward it. At the foot of the steps cut into the mountain, I have to stop and even my breathing before I can go on. It would be easy to turn back—I want nothing more than to put my back to this place and never see it again—but I think some part of me knew since this morning where today would lead me.

Before I’ve quite reached the doors of the fort, I turn away to the east. Though I’ve never stepped foot here, I know where I’m heading. Howe made sure I had an excellent view from the roof as he had Roderick’s body dumped into an unmarked grave. Something inside tells me to stop, that this is the place, before I even see the crumbling half-wall of stone that was my landmark. Maybe some part of me can still sense him, the way men wounded in war say they can still feel a hand that’s no longer there.

I manage to rest the bouquet of snowspurs against the stone before my knees give way. When they do, I don’t try to get up, just sit on my calves with my arms wrapped tightly around my ribcage. Tears don’t come, but I’m shaking from somewhere deep inside. It’s worse than sobbing, and Dante paces around me with worry before lying down to rest his head on my knee.

“You wouldn’t want me to say I’m sorry, but I’m going to anyway and you’re not here to stop me,” I say softly, looking at the flowers as if Roderick is kneeling here before me instead of slipped so far beyond my reach. “So I’m sorry. There, maybe you should have thought of _that_ before you went and left me.”

I can picture the way his eyebrows would lower, the way his lips would twist down on one side in badly feigned annoyance, and it makes me smile at the same time the tears finally start. “I know you… weren’t good at feeling powerless and all that. But neither am I, and nothing Howe could do to me was worse than taking you.” I stroke Dante’s wide head absently as I muse, “So yes, I suppose… inadvertently you were also the worst thing that ever happened to me, fucking twice over, Roderick, and I… _Why_ am I so angry at you for that when I know it wasn’t really your fault either time?”

I wipe at my face with my sleeve, try to stop the tears with my knuckles, but it doesn’t work. Finally I give up and just let myself sob. There’s no one here to see me anyway, and no matter how much I hate to feel weak so close to _that place_ , I have Dante at my side and there’s something about being near to Roderick again that makes me feel protected anyway.

When the tears finally run dry, a blessed numbness has filed away the sharpest edges of my pain. It doesn’t exactly feel better, but maybe a little lighter. I can breathe again.

“I’m sorry for that too,” I say, smiling despite myself. “You’re probably losing it right now if anything Mallol used to tell us is true. ‘Watching from the Maker’s side’—more like trying to tear through the Veil to tell me I can’t cry like that when you can’t hold me, right?”

A pang of shame twists in my chest and I whisper, “Someone else held my hand when I cried yesterday. And I _hugged_ him for it. How pathetic is that? Someone I barely even know, even if I am supposed to… to marry him.”

This time, I picture the hard line Roderick’s jaw would take when wine-drunk lordlings flirted with me at salons, and tears prick at the edges of my eyes again. “He’s not like the suitors Mother used to find for me. He’s… kind, and easy to talk to. He asked me about you, in a way. I think he would have forced the regent to call off the betrothal if I had told him there was someone I loved already. Another chance too late, like always. You and I, we always found the right path right after we had barreled past it.”

Dante licks my hand and I pull him into my lap like a giant, slavering security blanket. He’s heavy enough it isn’t at all comfortable, but it feels good to hold onto him, even if I wish I was holding onto someone else.

“I still wonder sometimes what would have happened if we had gone back to West Hill instead of fighting Howe’s occupation in Highever. Maybe you and Mallol would have made it, or maybe we would have just drawn down his wrath on the arling like I feared, but I don’t think I could go back and sacrifice everyone else we saved to undo it. I don’t think you could either. So maybe this is just how it always would have ended.”

I kiss the top of Dante’s head and he lolls his tongue happily, but the ache in my chest remains. “I still can’t understand what you wanted, when you told me to live. Maybe you didn’t want anything. Maybe it was just so you wouldn’t have to watch what they did to you happen to me. But I… I still hate you sometimes for leaving me alone in there. Not as much as I love you, not as much as I hate myself for not being able to save you, but enough that it hurts. So I’m thinking…” I take a deep breath, let it out, and whisper, “Maybe if I forgive us both, that’s one less thing Howe’s taken from me. Maybe I can remember how to feel something besides hatred and pain.”

I nudge Dante out of my lap and stand slowly, and the guilt clenching in my chest like a vice loosens. It isn’t gone and maybe it never will be, but it’s a step. Before I turn to leave, I look down at the snowspurs so like the ones that had blanketed our favorite hideaway by the coast and breathe, “I hope you can forgive me too.”


	12. Small Kindnesses

I’m a little surprised when Nalissa joins me for breakfast in the morning. Something about her has shifted without the teyrn’s presence—she smiles a good morning unprovoked and doesn’t seem so intent on aggressively dicing her breakfast before eating it. She also has her mabari trotting along at her heels, and he curls up patiently at her feet to wait.

I wonder if it was always her brother’s presence that kept her stiff and on guard. I wonder what it was they argued about that had her so on edge. Most of all, I wonder where she went when she left the palace yesterday.

Frederic at the gates reported to me when she left without an escort other than her warhound, concerned for her safety alone. And it was a long time, well after twilight had fallen, before she returned. I had been on the verge of going to look for her myself; skilled with blades or no, she was still a lady wandering Denerim mostly alone, and no city is without its less-than-savory elements after dark.

But she had returned none the worse for whatever she had been doing. I took some consolation from the fact she had at least used the gate instead of climbing over walls.

Nalissa falls into step beside me as I head for the throne room, the mabari on our heels. “Do you mind if I accompany you again?” she asks. “Dante will behave himself. I’ve explained very thoroughly that he won’t get any treats for a week if he doesn’t.”

She sounds so sure that’s all that’s necessary, I laugh softly. “You’re saying he understands threats? What about bribery? If I promise him a ham bone to bite someone I don’t like, will he do it?”

“Probably not for anything less than a roast,” she answers with a grin. “He loves a good roast. He used to harass the cook in Highever for scraps whenever she made one. And of course he understands! He’s a mabari! He can follow battle plans as well as any soldier. He knows what ‘mess up and you miss dinner’ means.”

Dante whines and she pats his head soothingly. “Don’t worry, boy. I’m not that cruel. Just don’t go mauling any lordlings and you’ll be fine.”

This time, the mabari barks enthusiastically and I grin. “Well, how can I say no to that?”

“If you figure it out, let me know,” she says sheepishly. “I still haven’t figured out how to tell him he can’t sleep sprawled all over my legs at night. He doesn’t seem to realize we’re not in Highever anymore and Denerim is going to get a _little_ too warm for that.”

“Have you tried offering him a roast?” I joke, and she rolls her eyes at me but there’s still a trace of a smile curling her mouth. Until we enter the throne room, and then she adjusts her expression to be carefully blank and sits quietly away to the side, as she did before.

This time, she doesn’t have a book. She greets the Banns she recognizes as they enter, which appears to be nearly all of them just as before. One pales when he sees her, and she can’t hide her smirk, and then he stammers through his argument for the tax increase two of his freeholders are describing as “tyrannical.” This time when he leaves, Nalissa holds up a hand to ask Eamon to wait on calling in the next group and approaches me with her eyebrows raised pointedly.

“You understand, of course, what those two farmers _weren’t_ saying?” she asks. There’s a crease between her eyebrows, and it reminds me of how she looks at me when we spar. It’s strangely nerve-racking. When I ask what she means, she just nods like she does when I’ve missed something in the training arena.

“They’re the only two elven freeholders in Ashgrove,” Nalissa says gravely, crossing her arms. “They already have fewer resources, fewer acquaintances to call in favors from than the human freeholders. The tax Bann Lades has levied won’t make or break any of his vassals this year. Except for them.”

I look to Eamon, who consults a couple of scrolls at length and then looks surprised. “She is correct, Your Majesty. They are the only two elven families owing fealty to the Bann of Ashgrove in the last census.”

“Which is hardly surprising, if you know Fletcher Lades,” Nalissa goes on. “Since he was a child, he could hardly breathe at an elf without calling her a knife-ear. There is a reason Lady Irma and her son stopped appearing on the guest lists for my mother’s salons.”

I frown. “So you’re saying this was a targeted tax. Even though it’s levied evenly, he knew well enough exactly who could pay it and who would be driven out.”

“And presented with the excuse of rebuilding his standing army from the Blight to justify it,” Nalissa says with a nod. “A joke if I’ve ever heard one. Waking Sea saw ten times the number of refugees to protect and Bann Eremon has levied no such tax.”

With a shrug, she raises her hands and there is a sudden devious gleam to her sea-green eyes. “It would be a shame if someone that knows Alfstanna were to catch those poor freeholders on the way out and inform them, wouldn’t it?”

“What you suggest could have all three plus Bann Eremon back here in a matter of days for a new dispute,” Eamon objects. Nalissa arches one brow at him pointedly.

“It could also save two families from losing their lands and having to find a place in an Alienage. Not to mention that Fletcher is hardly likely to dispute the allegiance of people he was trying to dispose of anyway.”

“Why would you think Bann Eremon would even agree to this?” Eamon presses.

Nalissa purses her lips. “Well, partially because I just spoke with Alfstanna last night, so I’ve a fairly up-to-date account of the state of her troops. And partially because I know she’s a decent person. I wouldn’t have sent elven refugees from Highever to her lands for shelter if I doubted her.”

Eamon crosses his arms too and looks at me. “It is up to you, Your Majesty.”

I can tell Eamon has his doubts, and he’s never steered me wrong before. But something about the set of Nalissa’s jaw tells me she’s just as certain of the people as the politics, and cares deeply about the former. I debate it with myself for a moment, then shrug and say, “It can’t hurt to let them know they have the same options available as human freeholders.”

Eamon’s mouth twists for just a moment, but then he nods in deference. Nalissa positively beams, gives a quick but sweeping bow, and hurries after the elven freeholders with Dante close on her heels.

“She is very strong-minded,” Eamon observes once she’s gone. The way he says it makes it sound like an unexpected problem, and I’m not sure I like that. If he was expecting her to be weak-willed with no convictions, I’m glad he was wrong.

“So is Arlessa Isolde,” I counter, raising my eyebrows.

Eamon hums acknowledgement but adds, “Perhaps, but that’s gotten her into trouble before, hasn’t it?”

“I doubt Nalissa will unleash a blood mage and a plague of undead on Denerim by reminding a couple of elves they have rights too.”

For once, Eamon has no response for my snark. He just shrugs noncommittally and escorts in a Bann with a peculiar request for aid from what he believes to be a Carta thug threatening his livestock.

Nalissa slips silently back inside a short while later and mouths a thank you as she resumes her seat. She looks pleased and confident, and at lunch tells me how one freeholder’s wife had given her some sort of Dalish blessing for the news.

“And I really wouldn’t worry about Fletcher,” she adds with a sweeping motion of her fork. “Even if he’s anything but relieved to be rid of them, he’s too much of a coward to do anything about it. He was too terrified to even say hello to me and I haven’t seen him in ten years.”

“Why _is_ that?” I ask curiously. “He looked like he was afraid you might pull a dagger out of your skirt and hurl it at him.”

Her right eyebrow shoots up and the left side of her lip curls into a smirk, and an odd sort of shiver runs down my spine. “You understand you’re delusional if you believe I _couldn’t_ do that. Not that he would know. I suspect he’s still afraid of frogs.”

I stare at Nalissa blankly, and she gives an awkward little chuckle, then tucks a strand of loose hair behind her ear. “I _may_ have gotten upset at him when we were children and… kind of burgled into his room and left some frogs and slugs in his bed for him to come back to.”

It’s so unexpected I burst out laughing. For the first time since I’ve known her, something like a blush tinges her cheekbones. “I was _nine_ and he was very rude to a friend of mine,” she says defensively.

“You’ve just always been a defender of your people, huh?” I ask with a grin. “Staunch supporter of the right to bear blades and slimy creatures.”

“Sometimes the situation calls for a more personal touch,” she argues, but her stubborn expression melts into a smile that in turn dissolves into a snicker and then we’re laughing into our plates, lunch forgotten.

Maybe I don’t really need to know what happened yesterday after all. Whatever it is seems to have lifted some kind of weight off her shoulders, and isn’t that enough?

* * *

It’s almost liberating now that I’ve accepted it, being left in Denerim. Not that I exactly have any more options than I had before, but it’s a different way of looking at things. If I’m going to stay here, after all, shouldn’t I make the most of it? And if the day has proven anything, it’s that I can still do good here.

I went to bed for the first time in days not feeling uneasy. I should have known it wouldn’t be allowed to last.

Dante wakes me with a bark and a cold, wet nose under my chin. I tell him to go back to sleep until something tickles my nose and I sneeze. And it’s then that I smell the smoke.

For a split second, I’m not alarmed. Fireplaces still produce smoke, so maybe Ilana simply forgot to open the flue. It _is_ awfully warm in here. But that isn’t like Ilana, and it isn’t like Dante to try to prod me awake for no reason. My eyes snap open and my heart nearly stops.

Half of the room is wreathed in flames, licking the walls and support beams and more alarmingly, _the door_. The roaring is suddenly so loud I don’t know how I didn’t hear it before, and the air is so hot and thick, it’s stifling. Quickly, I grab the dagger under my pillow and cut a length of the blanket to wrap around my face. I’m still trying to steady my shaking hands enough to get to my feet when Dante barks insistently again, racing from the bedside to the side door. The door to the maidservant’s chamber.

The little room is barely more than a closet, but Ilana has set up a cot there. If my bedroom is full of fire and smoke, hers can’t be any better in the confined space. The stone floor is hot against my bare feet as I race across it, and my voice is strained as I shout for her.

At first, I’m afraid I’m too late. The tiny space is filled with smoke and one wall is already ablaze. But Ilana stirs when I call her name again, groggy but alive, and I throw her arm over my shoulders to drag her out onto the balcony.

The rush of air into the room causes the flames to crackle and leap higher, but I can’t worry about that yet. I lean, coughing, against the balcony railing and unwind the blanket from my face to press it onto Ilana.

“M-my lady?” she asks in confusion, and I just shake my head to say I have no idea what happened. By the time I’ve managed to stop coughing, she’s pulling the blanket mask away from her face with a look of dawning horror. I push it back over her nose and mouth, shaking my head. The smoke already has my throat feeling raw, and she doesn’t need the same.

I briefly consider running back inside and trying to fashion another such mask, but the air has fed the flames too much. They’re now climbing over the bed and toward the source of fresh air, trapping us outside. I shut the doors to buy us some time, then move onto the next idea and glance without much hope over the edge of the balcony. But the ocean is dark beneath us and there are bound to be rocks at the end of that long fall, even if I can’t see them.

The smoke is getting worse and desperately I go to cut a length of cloth from the bottom of my nightgown, but then I realize I dropped my dagger as I ran to Ilana. I curse under my breath and another round of coughing starts. Finally, I manage to use the hook of Dante’s collar to make a rough cut at the skirt and rip off an uneven strip. It turns the nightgown scandalously short on one side, but that’s a problem for after we find a way out of here. If we do. The heat has been intensifying while I worked, and when I look up, the flames are devouring the doorframe.

“My lady, what do we do?” Ilana pleads, her voice muffled by the cloth over her face and thinner than usual from the smoke. Her eyes are huge and frightened over the makeshift mask, and I have to draw a deep breath and steel myself not to linger on the memory of the last time she looked so terrified with the flames of a burning castle reflected in her eyes.

“We find a way out,” I rasp through my own improvised mask. The heat is baking my exposed skin and my eyes burn even worse, but I blink through the blur and force myself to focus. To the left and right of the balcony there are more windows, but none close enough to reach. There’s a tiny ledge to one side before another window, but there’s no way either of us could make the leap or keep our balance even if we did. Desperately, I look up and spot another balcony above us. It’s too high to jump, but maybe…

“Stand in my hands,” I tell Ilana quickly, kneeling before her and locking my hands together. She gives me a look that is somehow more terrified than it was before. “I’ll lift you up to the balcony above and you can go for help,” I explain.

“M-my lady, shouldn’t _you_ —”

“Do you think you can lift me?” I challenge, but don’t wait for an answer. “I know it’s high, but it’s the only way. Now, Ilana, before it’s too late!”

Ilana hesitates for only a moment, then steps into my hands as I ordered and I boost her up. Her hands catch the railing of the balcony above, but she isn’t strong enough to pull herself up. It’s hard to find the strength myself when I can barely breathe, but with a cry of effort, I manage to shove her higher until she can hook her knee in the railing and pull herself over.

Her silver eyes are terrified again as she peers over the edge at me. “There’s no one up here!”

“Listen to me carefully,” I say as calmly as I can manage with the flames now so close I feel like they might be singing my hair. “Take that cloth off your face and wrap it around one of your hands, okay? Cover all the skin and turn your face away. And then punch one of the windows up there as hard as you can.”

It takes her three tries, but finally I hear the glass shatter and a squeal that could be surprise or pain. I instruct her to gather anyone she can find, yell until someone finds her, whatever is necessary, and then I listen as her footsteps die away on carpet.

The heat and smoke are getting worse, and I press my body against the balcony railing to get as far away from both as I can manage. Dante barks and presses tight against my legs, and the next moment the glass in the balcony door and two nearby windows shatter outward from the heat of the flames. We’re peppered in burning hot shards, and I’m glad he made me look down or I might have taken one to the eye. He’s so much smarter than he’s given credit for, for all the good that will do us.

Still there’s no sign of anyone coming, though whether I could hear over the roar of the flames if there was, I can’t say. Desperately, I try to balance on the balcony railing and leap up to the one above, but I receive only singed hands and glass in my feet as I land. Dante whines and tries to lick the wounds, but I push him away and clasp a hand in my hair. I need to think, because there has to be a way out of this but I can’t imagine what it could be. The tiny, impossible to grip ledge to my right looks more and more tempting as the flames press closer. Which is worse, burning to death or falling? It’s impossible to wrap my mind around. Of all the ways I’d thought I might die through my life, neither of those was an option I had ever considered before.

The smoke is making my head spin and I’ve just decided maybe falling to my death is a better option than definitely dying in the flames when it happens. There’s a crash as wood splinters somewhere inside the inferno that used to be my room, and then a muffled voice shouts something I can’t understand. Immediately, I yell back that there’s someone in here and I need help, and I can hear Ilana’s tones screaming back though I can’t make out the words. She found someone, hopefully someone that can help do more than just break the door down because I’m having to lean on the railing for support now. It’s a good thing I hadn’t tried to make the leap; everything is so hazy, I would have just fallen uselessly over the edge.

Dante yelps and I can’t tell if he’s singed his fur or cut his paws. I try to check, but when I reach for him I tip forward and fall. My shoulder burns sharply and I wonder vaguely if it’s with fire or glass. Dante barks madly and someone shouts from the other side of the fire, and then the strangest thing of the night happens.

The flames part right down the middle, like someone has scooped it aside with invisible hands. Silhouetted on the other side is a man with broad shoulders and short hair, and he seems to be carrying a lamp with blue fire in one hand as he stands on the other side of the corridor of flame. I shake my head, meaning to clear it, but only manage to hit it on something solid. It doesn’t hurt, but my chest and throat feel like they’re on fire. Vaguely, I wonder if they are.

Black spots dance in front of my eyes as the man makes his way through the ash where the rug used to be, moving toward me with purpose. Is it my father, I wonder, or perhaps Roderick come to take me with him this time? Such a pathetic way to go meet them, dying like a trapped animal instead of going out with some fight.

I think I manage to rasp out an apology before a hot wind rushes into my face and the dark spots explode into blackness.


	13. Two Types of Scars

After a childhood trained by templars and two years as a Grey Warden, you’d think there wouldn’t be much that could rattle me anymore. But when Eamon took it upon himself to do something as un-Eamon-like as burst through my study door long after I had thought everyone else in the palace asleep, well, consider me rattled.

I hadn’t stopped to think after he told me what was wrong, just moved. A fire in the palace was bad enough—a fire in Nalissa’s room, and her maid running frantically through the palace in her nightgown searching for help, was nothing short of a catastrophe. I made it to the guest wing in record time, and from there Ilana’s shrieks guided me the rest of the way.

She had managed to round up a terrified maidservant, the librarian, and no less than seven knights, including Ser Haywood and Ser Chandrell. Someone had kicked in the door, which had only served to let the fire spread into the hallway. Four of the knights held buckets and they were scrambling to throw water onto the flames, but it was the second floor and once the buckets were empty, there was nothing else to stop the fire’s progress.

I remember Dante barking madly for attention, then looking through the inferno to see Nalissa and her hound pinned down on the balcony. I can’t quite recall what I shouted at the knights but they scattered all except Ser Chandrell, who had taken the librarian’s coat and was trying to beat out the fire with it. Then through the flames, I had watched Nalissa fall as if in slow motion. Even if the flames didn’t reach her before the knights returned with more water, I knew she would suffocate on the smoke if she stayed there. So, desperate to do _something_ , I had reached out and, without considering what I was doing, dispelled the flames.

The insanity of all these events replay in my head as I stand, staring in shock at the neat path through the fire, alarm bells ringing in my head that I promptly ignore until I can deal with them later. Someone, probably Ilana, gasps behind me as I rush through the path I’ve made, but I have no time or concentration for anything but Nalissa.

She is murmuring something under her breath as I reach her. I call out to her by name but she only rasps something that sounds oddly like, “I’m sorry,” then passes out on the floor. Dante whines and tries to nudge her awake, but she doesn’t respond.

“Don’t do that, come on,” I whisper, shaking her shoulders a little, but her head lolls limply. My heart pounds in my ears louder than the crackling of the flames and I lift her carefully, one arm behind her back and the other behind her knees. She’ll be fine, I tell myself as I carry her back out of the room. She just needs fresh air and… a healer, definitely a healer, I realize with a pang of something dangerously close to panic as we emerge into the relative safety of the hallway and I can take a better look at her to inventory her injuries.

Beneath the soot, there are dozens of tiny cuts on her arms and shoulders and even one side of her face—she was probably standing too close when the glass in the windows broke, I reason. There are shiny red burns on one shoulder, one knee, and both hands. And worst of all, I can’t tell if she’s breathing.

“My lady, wake up!” Ilana pleads, hovering at my elbow but seemingly afraid to touch Nalissa. I bark an order to Ser Chantrell to go for the healer—Imagine, me, barking! What this mess has done to me!—but hardly a breath later, Ser Haywood and Venya race around the corner.

“She’s alive,” the healer declares after a moment, and I almost drop her in relief. “Your Majesty, you can put her down. We’ll find a litter to bear her—”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” I scoff. I’d wave away the very suggestion if I had a free hand. I send the maidservant to update Eamon and the knights to fetch more water, then carry Nalissa to the infirmary myself. Ilana and Dante trail behind me, somehow wearing matching worried expressions despite the latter being a hound. Nalissa had been right, I think wryly; that mabari is far smarter than any normal dog.

“Put her down there, if you would,” Venya requests, indicating the bed farthest from the door. Nalissa stirs faintly as I put her down, and a moment later is coughing violently.

“Turn on your side, dear,” Venya says kindly, helping her do so as she bustles around. “There you go. Whatever needs out, get it out.”

Ilana finally settles on a mostly uninjured space on Nalissa’s forearm to place her hand gently. “I am sorry, my lady. How bad is the hurt?”

Nalissa’s eyes are bloodshot when she looks up, half her face covered in soot, but she still manages to look alarmed. “Ilana?” she rasps. “Why are you here? You got out!”

I don’t understand what she means, but Ilana shakes her head and smooths her lady’s hair back from her face soothingly. “I did, and so did you. You’re with the healer, my lady. You’re going to be alright.”

This time Nalissa glances around in surprise, as if she hadn’t noticed the rows of beds and gentle lamplight weren’t the burning room she had been trapped inside. Her lips crack into a smile when she sees Dante but as her eyes land on me, she startles and draws back her arm, touches her burned shoulder awkwardly, and winces. While I’m trying to figure out what that meant, Ilana bows low, still shaking.

“I am so very sorry, my lady. I found help as quickly as I could.”

Nalissa’s face softens again, and between small coughs, manages to say, “Ilana, don’t—you got help and I’m—fine, see?”

“‘Fine’ might be an overstatement,” Venya corrects her, tutting over something on her bare feet. “Why in the Maker’s name were you walking on broken glass?!”

Nalissa looks sheepish. “Perhaps not so much walking. I tried to jump from the railing to the next floor. It, ah—didn’t quite work.”

Venya shakes her head and continues her assessment, giving similar scoldings as she applies a thick ointment to patches of burned skin. When she gets to the shoulder wound, she pauses in surprise and her eyes widen. “Andraste’s mercy, child!” she breathes, and for some reason, Nalissa looks down at the bed, raking her teeth against her lip and saying nothing.

Frowning, I look to see what could have given the healer pause and feel my stomach turn as an involuntarily sharp breath of surprise hisses past my teeth. I hadn’t stopped to consider what Nalissa was wearing, but her nightgown is sleeveless and so lacks the high neckline of the dresses I’ve seen her wear before. Across the back of her shoulder and above the low neck of her gown, still partially obscured by the tangle of her dark hair, is a patchwork of scars. Some are thick and corded, like from a lash. Some are flat and white, like from a blade. And at least one, puckered and drawn about the edges, looks very much like the shape of a hot poker or iron.

Ilana steps forward with sudden steel in her silver eyes and gently but firmly rearranges her mistress’s long hair over the scars. The look she gives Venya and me is scathing, but she says not a word. I realize abruptly that my fists are clenched at my sides and my jaw is tight, and quickly try to rearrange my expression. I find myself wishing I had run through each of the men convicted of torture at Fort Drakon just as I had Loghain.

Venya clears her throat and goes back to applying salve, but Nalissa doesn’t look up. I want to say something, to reassure her maybe, but what do you say in this moment?

Ilana seems to know, because whatever she murmurs into Nalissa’s ear has her nodding and raising her chin again. Then with a sudden motion, she sits up on the cot and straightens her shoulders.

“As I’ve said before,” Nalissa says firmly, looking first at Venya and then at me, “I’ve been far worse. I’ll be fine.”

Venya looks like she wants to shove her back down again. “You have glass in your feet, my lady!” she scolds. “I don’t care what you’ve survived before, with a dozen burns and a hundred cuts, you’ll be inviting infection without treatment. You are _not_ leaving this ward tonight, do you understand me?”

Nalissa’s mouth thins for a moment and then she relents, lying down again with a sigh. “Fine, but I reserve the right to argue further when my head stops spinning.”

Ilana sits on the next cot down at her lady’s instruction, and I stand uselessly by as Venya tends Nalissa’s wounds. She flinches when the healer moves on to the glass in her feet, then looks at me pointedly and grins. It’s mechanical, doesn’t come close to reaching her eyes, and I wonder if she’s simply trying to distract herself as she says, “I may owe you a new window, I’m afraid.”

I laugh a little at the absurdity of that. “I don’t blame you for the windows breaking after your room caught fire. I may have grown up in a stable, but I’m still a better host than that.”

“Oh no, another window aside from those. I had Ilana break the one in the room above to get out.”

“I still think we can consider that part of the fire damage,” I assure her, then sober and pull up a chair next to her cot with a sigh. “I’m really sorry for all of this. I’m glad you’re alright.”

Nalissa’s expression softens a little. “I’m fine,” she says quietly, and without the extra effort for volume, her voice sounds much rougher from the smoke. “It’s hardly your fault if someone put too much oil in a lamp or whatever sparked it. I did mention I’ve had worse? I suppose you’ve now seen proof of that yourself.”

I should probably tell her what I suspect of the fire, but I don’t. There’s something a little too nonchalant about that last statement. I wonder if she took whatever expression was on my face to mean disgust instead of anger. I wonder how I can fix that if she did.

I start with a smile and telling her truthfully, “I never doubted you’re stronger than I am, if that’s what you think. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t get a little worried when you passed out on me there.”

She gives me a little frown, and Ilana says from behind me, “He speaks true, my lady. He was the one that went into the fire after you. He held out his hand and the flames retreated. It was like magic.”

This time, I’m given a suspicious look and Nalissa says slowly, “I… thought that was a dream. Or that I was dying, really. But that corridor through the fire, that was real?”

“I told you I was trained as a templar,” I start to explain, as quietly as possible. I’m not sure I want the other two to overhear. Venya interrupts to pat Nalissa’s arm gently and say she’s finished, and Nalissa asks her to check on Ilana without remembering she had said she would be arguing to leave again. I don’t remind her.

Once Venya moves to the other cot, Nalissa looks back at me and asks quietly, “You stopped a fire with skill you learned as a templar? How would that work if the fire wasn’t magical?”

“It wouldn’t,” I admit. “By all rights, it should have done nothing and we shouldn’t have been able to get to you. But it did, and I could.”

She stares at me for a moment before whispering, “So you’re saying this wasn’t an accident. That was a _magical_ fire.”

I nod slowly, and she leans back to stare at the ceiling and take a few deep breaths. Finally, at the end of a long exhale, she says, “Sorry, I… guess it’s been a while since someone tried to kill me in my sleep. And with _fire_ , like this is Tevinter and I just freed their slaves. Who does that? Who thinks, ‘I want to kill this woman, so I’m going to set her room on fire and run away’?”

A manic edge is starting to creep into her voice, so I try to diffuse it by saying, “Maybe they were just too afraid to try to kill you when you were awake? I know I would be!”

Nalissa gives me a weak smile for the joke, then looks back up at the ceiling. I’m about to ask if she knows any apostates, anyone with ties to the Circle that would want to hurt her, when she speaks so hesitantly I stop mid-breath.

“Look, Alistair… I meant to tell you, before you—before anything became final. I just hadn’t quite worked out how yet. I never intended to trick you or… That is, I know they’re repulsive. I don’t blame you for thinking so, and I don’t blame you if you don’t want someone with—that looks like—”

It takes me a moment, but once I understand what she’s talking about, I cut off her excuses immediately. “You think I would be angry at you for not telling me you have some scars?”

Nalissa doesn’t answer, just fidgets with the bandages wrapping her hands and worries at the inside of her lower lip with her teeth. She really does, I realize. She really thinks that I could hate some marks on her skin more than I could like her kindness, her wit, or her bravery. Probably, I think sadly, because _she_ does.

“That would be the stupidest thing anyone has ever done,” I tell her softly, and she looks back at me like she thinks she must have heard wrong. The usually invisible scar under her cheekbone catches the light, and impulsively, I reach forward to trace it once with my thumb. “You are beautiful. It’s hardly the most important thing about you, but you are. A few scars don’t change that.”

Her lips part just a little in surprise as I speak, and she stares at me for what feels like a long moment before she swallows and says, as if trying to talk me out of my opinion, “I think I have more than a few of them.”

“I think it doesn’t matter,” I answer honestly, giving her a smile and a shrug. “What, do you think I don’t have any? I’ve fought _dragons_. You don’t fight dragons and not end up with scars. Not to mention all the darkspawn and soldiers—oh, and even an enchanted spirit version of myself, once!”

Nalissa smiles a little, a real one this time. “You’ll have to tell me that story some time.”

“It’s a pretty good one,” I admit, then try for some seriousness. It’s a little against my nature, especially when I’m feeling as awkward and flustered as I am right now. “But I mean what I said. All scars are is proof that you’re stronger than the men who gave them to you.”

The small smile on her lips falters, but now there’s something unexpectedly soft in her eyes. “I… Thank you. You’ve been nothing but kind to me and I’ve… I’m not good at trust anymore, but I’m trying. I’m glad you’re the one I get to practice it with.”

I smile and realize I mean it as I say, “Me too.”

* * *

I stay in the infirmary at the healer Venya’s request, not least of all because it puts the king’s mind at ease and I don’t exactly have anywhere else to go anyway. Ilana has fared far better than I thanks to her relatively early escape, and Dante seems fine other than some mild burns to the pads of his feet that he allowed to be bandaged only under sufferance and promise of roast.

Despite all this and the way my pain starts to leech away into the herbs Venya applied to the bandage wrapping, I still barely sleep. I tell myself it’s because I’m afraid of what I might dream in front of the healer, but that’s only half of the reason. I lie awake most of the rest of the night trying to decide what it was Alistair had made me feel.

He’s held my hand before when I was upset, but that seemed mostly innocent. What else do you do when someone breaks down in front of you like an upset child? But tonight, I had held it together, or at least had done my solid best not to let it show when I didn’t.

And tonight, it had felt different. I had forgotten how to breathe for a moment when Alistair touched my face and told me I was beautiful, and as much as I want to blame it on the shock, on the absurdity of what he was saying despite his sincerity, I can’t quite lie to myself that well.

Something twinges in my stomach and I swallow to make sure it stays down. It’s not a betrayal, I tell myself again, for the man that I’m supposed to marry to touch me, especially so innocently. Especially if he had just carried me out of a Maker-damned fire and was probably just wiping dirt off my face or something. Especially since there’s no one left to betray.

And even if it was a different kind of touch, it was surely an attempt at comfort again. I had been on the verge of shutting down when he had seen the scars I try so hard to hide. I probably would have, if it wasn’t for Ilana. Those marks make _me_ shudder, and I have to look at them in the mirror every day when I dress. And I swore I had seen anger and disgust in his eyes in the tiny moment I glanced up through my eyelashes. But I must have misread him again, because he was so blighted earnest when he spoke, it caught me off guard.

The trouble, I think, is that Alistair is always earnest if he’s serious at all. The light, joking personality is easier to deal with—makes it easier to forget why I’m here and what’s about to happen. But the intensity in those soft brown eyes and the way his voice turns at once more nervous and more soothing when he’s serious, those will be my undoing.

Look at me, lying awake thinking of his warm fingers brushing my face instead of the fact that someone set my room on fire tonight. When Fergus set forth the regent’s proposal, I had prepared myself for so many things, but a man that gave a damn about who I was beyond my family name hadn’t been one of them. I had steeled myself for war and then walked into a garden instead of a battlefield.

No, I decide, Alistair Theirin is more like a rocky coast at sunset: bright and cheerful from a distance, and up close, warm and comfortable enough that you don’t notice the loneliness right away. And not the kind of lonely I am, either; this is a man that sometimes truly believes the jokes he makes about himself. I wonder if that isn’t why he talks about that Sereda woman so much, if he didn’t love her—if she isn’t simply the first real friend he’d ever had who saw him as more than useless or unwanted.

The thought reminds me of my anger at the Arl and Arlessa Guerrin, and I’m still silently fuming when Venya bustles cheerily into the room. She can’t have slept much either, but she seems happy to greet the morning already. She unwraps the bandages from my hands and nods approvingly at how they’ve healed. The skin feels tight, but not painful; whatever concoction she used for burns is a wonder. Only my feet are really still painful when she removes the bandages, and I wince as the wounds are exposed to the air.

“Apologies, Lady Cousland,” she says as she cleans the wounds in question with something that burns enough I hiss through my teeth. “Deeper wounds, especially to muscles and tendons, are always trickier to heal without magic.”

Magic, I ponder as she changes the bandages for fresh ones, is exactly what got me into this mess, according to Alistair. I don’t think I’ve ever even met a mage before, with two prominent and very unpleasant exceptions. There had been one among the attackers in the Great Hall that night in Highever, but I had slit her throat for the bolt of lightning that sent Roderick convulsing to the ground. And then there had been Talverd.

I shudder and Venya pulls a soft blanket back over my legs as she finishes with the bandaging. I’m not cold, but pretend I am for the moment. It’s better than explaining.

Talverd had posed as a healer, or whatever passed for one in the dungeons of Fort Drakon. It was he that Howe called for whenever one of his men went too far, when they risked permanent damage if they let their handiwork heal the slow way. The first time I had met him, he had been called in to heal a cut on my face after one of the men torturing me had lost his head and forgot Howe had specifically ordered against lasting marks there. The optimistic fool had believed until the last that I would eventually give him that public speech and marriage to his son he was hoping for.

But to call Talverd a healer would be like calling black nettle a healing herb because it can numb pain while forgetting it trades that off with poison. He was more venomous than any snake and more sadistic than any torturer. And I have no idea what became of him after Fort Drakon, after he had left me to die in the dark for refusing his “price” for healing.

I shudder again at the memory, more violently this time. I’m spiraling and I can feel it but there’s nothing to hold onto to stop me, the sunlight peeking through cracks in the curtains not enough to drive away the shadows. It feels like falling into an abyss, into a vat of ice-cold water and having my head held under until I can’t hold my breath any longer and I know that if they want me to, this time I’m going to drown.

Light floods my vision and I jolt, coughing and gasping for breath like the water was real and I haven’t breathed in an Age. My hands search for something solid, and a soft hand takes one of mine, braced against the lurch when I inevitably try to pull it in. My other hand swipes wildly for something to break its grip when something smooths my hair back gently and a kind voice promises, “You’re safe, my lady. Listen, there’s Dante! Do you hear him? Smell the clean air, the flowers on the desk. And look, another sun is rising for you that the men who hurt you will not see. Isn’t it beautiful?”

I blink once, twice, three times, and the room comes slowly back into focus. Ilana must have opened the curtains, because it’s all much brighter and airier now. I swallow thickly, my tongue too large and dry in my mouth, but I nod.

“It is,” I rasp out shakily, then run a hand down the back of my hair and neck, even though I remember it’s been a year since anyone gripped me there and held my head underwater, but I need to feel sure. There’s no hand there, so my shoulders slump a little as the fight or flight reaction ebbs and I lean back on the cot to close my eyes and quiet my breathing. “Thank you, Ilana.”

Ilana simply nods, continuing to stroke my hair gently, but I see the worry on her face. “Did you fall asleep, my lady? There were no sounds…”

I shake my head and say thickly, “No, I… was just thinking too much. I know better. I wasn’t focusing well enough to let my thoughts drift that way, I’m sorry.”

Ilana nods her understanding even though she can’t possibly understand, and I’m once again so grateful for her. How she stays so calm for me, I can’t imagine. I need to be better at doing the same so she doesn’t have to fret over me so much. Perhaps I will start tomorrow, because today I must push myself just a bit further.

I ask Venya about breakfast, and she insists I remain in bed. Both Ilana and I still wear only simple tunics with leggings provided by the healer last night, but as we have nothing else to change into, Ilana agrees to go as she is to the dining room for me. She returns with a tray of sausage, pastry, an omelet, and tea, only half of which I touch. The sausage goes to Dante as a payment toward the roast he’s owed, and Ilana nibbles at the pastry while I try to convince my stomach that it needs to allow me to eat _something_ or what comes next will be even more unpleasant.

“The king agreed to visit you shortly,” Ilana says as she shares the pot of tea with me, and I nod, hoping it looks neutral and normal. It’s difficult to keep my hands from shaking but I focus on the cup, on its tiny filigree design, on the earthiness of the tea and the pillow soft behind me and the sunlight streaming pink and golden through the east-facing windows. I must be especially present when Alistair arrives, or I’ll never be able to get through what I need to say.

I’ve never spoken of Talverd, not to anyone, but I must ask. If there is any mage in Thedas that would want to see me burn alive, it would be him.


	14. Steppingstones

I leave breakfast early, before Eamon can arrive to whisk me away toward duty. Not that he isn’t likely to figure out where I’ve gone sooner or later, probably sooner, but whatever land dispute or squabble over inheritance the nobles wish to pester me with can wait. Nalissa has never asked for my presence before, seemingly content in solitude whenever she was upset, so I’m not about to refuse if that might have changed. No matter how odd it might be for the king to respond to a summons from a quiet elven maidservant in infirmary clothes.

Just to make sure Eamon doesn’t intercept me, I route through the kitchens and then the garden on my way to the infirmary. I knock carefully before I enter and find Nalissa sitting up in bed, wearing simple clothes just like her maid but looking much more put together after last night than I would have thought possible. She’s even managed to arrange her hair in a loose braid that still ensures her scars are covered. It leaves the front to fall around her face in a very flattering way.

I clear my throat and shift my weight awkwardly, and she smiles just so faintly before she asks me to sit by her. I do, but her next request is met with a little more resistance when she asks Ilana and Venya to give us the room. Venya sniffs at the indignity of being asked to leave her own infirmary, but does as she’s asked. Ilana looks worried and asks if her lady is certain before she goes, which in turn makes me nervous. Ilana clearly knows Nalissa far better than I do, so what could she want to say that she would send away her maid?

She takes a deep breath before she speaks, which also gives me a rather foreboding impression. “I hope I’m not imposing, asking you to see me. But Venya won’t let me leave, and I've been considering what you said last night.”

What I’d said? What did I say, again? My mind races as I try to remember. That I was worried about her. That I’m sorry for what happened. _That she’s beautiful._ Not any of those things, surely. Nervously, I suggest with a grin, “That you’re stronger than I am? Yes, definitely still true.”

Nalissa smiles only slightly again, seemingly unwilling to grace me with a real one, and my worry grows. Had I misspoken when I tried to reassure her last night, broken etiquette somehow? There are probably a million things I don’t know not to do. I think of touching her face, the smoothness of her skin and the surprise in her eyes, and regret giving in to such a stupid impulse. It must have been inappropriate, the type of touch the sisters at the monastery would have scolded me for, and now she’s more frightened than she already was, only of me.

She parts her lips with her tongue and I brace myself for her scorn, for the carefully measured voice that hides everything away. And she does speak softly and carefully, but she doesn’t disguise the way her voice cracks with unease on the third sentence. “I appreciate that, but no. About the fire. I had an idea who might want to set it, if he’s still… around.”

My worry slips away instantly in favor of something more protective. “A maleficar?” The word slips out instinctively from the part of my mind that’s never quite forgotten my templar training. “Who is it and why would he want to hurt you?”

Nalissa hesitates again, her fingers tracing invisible designs over the tops of her knees. When she speaks, the name comes out in a hoarse whisper. “Talverd. I don’t know if he had any… official sanction. I’m sure Howe told him to do as he pleased. And he would do it because he enjoys it. Officially, he was a healer, so I… suspect he could have lied and escaped trial.”

I consider what she’s saying and rack my brain for want to give her a different answer, but none comes to mind. “He may have,” I admit. “I can recall no healer being charged, never mind a mage.”

This time, the breath she takes is not only deep but also long and shaky. She tries for a wry smile as she says, “I was afraid of that.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell her quietly. “How did he manage to pass for a healer? Is there any way we could have known?”

“He _could_ heal,” she answers, pausing to rub her hands over her face. She looks tired, like she hasn’t slept much. I can’t blame her; between investigating the fire and worrying about who would try to hurt her, I hadn’t slept at all. “I doubt anyone would have told you what he really is, they were too afraid of him.” My eyebrows rise in alarm and she explains, “He would heal you if ordered, but he would also make you ‘pay’ for it. His favorite method was causing as much pain as he judged he would be sparing you, all at once. Not everyone he was ordered to heal survived the ordeal.”

I watch her shudder at the memory, run her fingers over a scar on the back of her left hand. I don’t want to push her further, but my next question is important. It still feels like a taboo to speak the words as I whisper,  “Was he a blood mage?”

A pair of sea-green eyes, still bloodshot from the smoke, meet mine hopelessly. “What makes someone a blood mage? I don’t know. I never saw him drain anyone for power, but he was surrounded by it in there, we all were.”

“What… what could he _do_?” I press, trying to explain. “Kinds of magic other mages can’t, for example. Controlling people, forcing them to do things they normally wouldn’t, continuing to channel magic long after he should have been out of mana?”

Nalissa’s breathing turns shaky again, and she watches me closely for a moment then abruptly shakes her head. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to stare. It helps to focus on the here. It’s still… it’s not easy to talk about.”

I’m not sure if it should or not, but it makes me a little self-conscious that she chose to focus on _me._  I fidget with the runic token I still carry in my pocket and wonder what it is she sees, because I don’t think I’ve ever seen her look more vulnerable. Sitting there like that with her knees pulled to her chest, without a skirt or layered leathers, she looks so small. I wonder if I should risk taking her hand again, if that would give her any comfort. Before I can decide, she switches her focus to the embroidery pattern on her blanket and speaks.

“I don’t know if he could do magic normal mages can’t. I’ve only met one other mage in my life. She threw lightning at the Highever knights during the invasion until I killed her. He didn’t throw lightning; I don’t know if that helps or not.” She hesitates, digs her fingernails into her shins, and clears her throat. “He could… I don’t know how to explain. He could wave a hand and it felt like every bone in your body was breaking. Touch your lips and suddenly it felt like you had swallowed broken glass. I… thought I was going crazy the first time, until I heard the guards talking about him. I don’t know how long it lasted—I don’t know how long spells are supposed to last.”

She shudders again and I mean to stop her, but before I can she continues in a whisper, “The last I saw of him was after Howe was dead. No one was keeping me alive anymore, so I was… well, not counting on being alive much longer. He offered to heal me for… a price I was not willing to pay. So he broke three more ribs and lit a fire in my veins so it would hurt more while I drowned on my own blood. That’s the last thing I remember until I woke up at the chirurgeon’s.”

It’s only when she stops speaking that I notice I’ve physically tensed in reaction to her words, like I’m prepared to fight the man that would do that to her. I think I would, if I knew where to find him. Perhaps I should involve the guard sooner rather than later so I’m not given the opportunity. It couldn’t be a good thing for the not-templar king to drain the mana from a mage and then sheath a sword in his gut, no matter how appealing that sounds.

The next thing I realize is that Nalissa’s voice has become wooden, and I look at her more closely. She’s no longer shuddering but actually shaking, pressing her heels into the bed so hard I’m worried she’ll reopen the wounds on her feet. “Nalissa?” I ask uncertainly, and she nods sharply.

“I’m fine,” she says, though her voice is suddenly pitched higher than usual. She seems to realize and clears her throat before concluding, “Anyway. I don’t know what became of him after that. I was rather hoping he’d attacked someone important and been executed, but I suppose that was too much to ask for.”

“You _are_ someone important, and he will be,” I tell her firmly. She doesn’t look convinced, and I want so badly to reassure her that I catch her hand as it drops to trace blanket embroidery again. I hope it’s comforting instead of startling, though when her eyes dart to me, they seem to suggest it may be both. “I swear to you, he won’t hurt you again—no one will.” I shake my head. “I can’t fathom why anyone would even want to try.”

Nalissa glances down at my hand over hers and I realize my thumb is tracing softly over the back of her knuckles. Is that a soothing motion? Hopefully, I can’t imagine why else I would be doing it. She seems to think so, because her voice is softer as she admits, “I… have a talent for finding the most vulnerable places to stick both blades and words. That didn’t change just because they took away my daggers. I was… not some docile captive. Most of those scars, I earned.”

“No, I can’t really imagine you being docile about anything,” I murmur, and one corner of her lips curls up ever so slightly. I tighten my grip on her hand gently and add, “But ‘earned’ makes it sound like you deserved them. You didn’t.”

Her expression shifts again, and this time I can see it as she pushes emotion away and lifts her chin. Whatever she’s about to say, it makes her feel more vulnerable than what we were just discussing. “No? You’ve witnessed my… particular skill set. What makes you so sure I didn’t?”

I lean toward her and meet her eyes carefully. “You’re right, I have.” She gives a tiny jolt, like she’s bracing herself against what I might say, and I go on quickly, “I’ve seen you pick apart fighters for weaknesses and then tell them what they are to help them grow.” She remains tense, but something in her eyes softens. “I’ve seen you pin down a bann’s racist motivations in a matter of seconds and come up with a reasonable solution as easy as breathing.” A tinge of pink creeps across her cheekbones. “I’ve heard the way you talk about your people, and the way Ilana talks about you. You’re smart and resourceful and kind and—” The faint freckles under her eyes have disappeared into her blush now, and I notice that for whatever unfathomable reason, she has them _in_ her eyes too, and I falter. “And anyone can see that, I mean. And those are the things that are important, that I mentioned.” Her eyebrows flicker down slightly in confusion, and I realize my voice has tapered away into a mumble somewhere along the way as I conclude, “The things that are, ah, more important than—than how beautiful you are, that is.”

Somehow, part-way through trying to explain that she couldn’t possibly have deserved everything she had suffered, I had gotten off track and wound up stammering like a fool. And to make matters worse, I’m almost entirely sure I’ve blushed much less gracefully than Nalissa has, all the way up to my ears and down my neck. I’m suddenly acutely aware that I’m still holding her hand, and probably have been for entirely too long to be simply comforting.

I clear my throat and make to stand, so I can move away and hopefully stop looking like such a fool, when Nalissa abruptly catches my hand as I start to withdraw it. When I look down at her, there’s a smile I haven’t seen before on her lips. “I… appreciate it, Alistair,” she says softly. “You’re very sweet. Which is also more important than how handsome you are.”

Since I was already blushing before she spoke, I’m reasonably certain my face actually catches fire. She hadn’t fumbled over her own words like I had—probably because she isn’t a bumbling idiot like I am—but her ears are turning red now too. I can’t tell if it’s embarrassment or panic trying my tongue, but I stumble through something along the lines of “thank you” and “goodbye,” too.

I’m still trying to rub the blush and stupid grin off my face when I turn down the hallway to the throne room. Probably because I’m still thinking about that strange little smile and Nalissa’s voice calling me _sweet_ and _handsome_.

* * *

My feet feel remarkably better in the morning, though Venya still insists I still shouldn’t wear shoes. I smile and tell her I won’t so she doesn’t fuss over my leaving. Thankfully, the healer has a seemingly never-ending supply of pastel tunics and cream-colored leggings, because Ilana and I have nothing else to wear. I check the ruins of my suite hopefully, but the scorched stone and timber that are really all that’s left. I salvage my white steel daggers from the ash along with the small metal box containing my Cousland crest ring and a few pieces of jewelry that had belonged to my mother. The wooden dresser containing my clothes, unfortunately, did not fare so well, and my leathers are a scorched heap on what had once been an armor stand.

I dispatch Ilana to bring my daggers and armor to the smithy for salvaging, then try to decide who would be my best option for replacing my clothes quickly. Unfortunately, short of leaving the castle and wandering the city looking for a tailor, I can think of only one option.

“Lady Cousland,” Isolde greets me, surprise thickening her words and her Orlesian accent. “Eamon had told me about the fire—that you were injured. It is good to see you well.”

I can’t tell if she’s genuine or not—it’s always hard to tell with anyone who’s played the Game. I fall back into my old method of assume sincerity but prepare for treachery as if it hasn’t been four years that feel like an entire lifetime since my last trip to the Orlesian court. I return her greeting, then flatter her choice of ensemble, and use that as a way to breach the topic.

“Oh dear!” Isolde says, looking genuinely concerned. “I had wondered why you looked so very… Dalish.”

“Bandages, not wrapping,” I correct her, gesturing vaguely toward my feet. “Healer’s orders. But I doubt that excuse will get me far at the ball, and two days isn’t a lot of time to order an entire wardrobe.”

“I doubt that excuse would get you _into_ the ball, in your honor or no.” I freeze in mortification—why I can’t say, seeing as I’d suspected that from the beginning—and she smiles. “ _But_ I have a surprise perfect for the occasion! I had commissioned it for your first official presentation as the king’s intended so I had not expected to need it tailored so quickly, but I shall ensure Maeva and her girls work double pace…”

She continues speaking as she wanders away toward her closet with a handmaid, and I bite my tongue, trying to prepare for whatever high-collared Orlesian atrocity she’s about to present me. But the pale violet gown the maid presents upon their return is actually rather lovely. It’s just dark enough _not_ to be classifiable as pastel, which at this point of my association with Venya’s infirmary clothes seems like a miracle. The color deepens on the skirt, becoming a deep purple by the hem, and there’s delicate gold embroidery along the sleeves and skirt to match the gold laces on the bodice. It’s still very Orlesian, with a daringly low neckline held together by a deeper violet sash meant to wind around the neck, but there is no giant fan of a collar in the back, and as it turns out, maybe that would have been better.

“Purple _is_ the color of royalty,” Isolde says, clearly quite pleased with herself. “And it will be lovely with your hair.”

“It is—lovely, that is,” I answer, touching the skirt and finding that it’s both soft and ripples quite pleasingly. Antivan silk, perhaps. “But I do wonder about the back. Could be altered? It’s quite low.”

“I should hardly consider your shoulderblades indecent, my lady,” Isolde dismisses me with a shrug.

I bite the inside of my jaw and try for a half truth. “I was burned in the fire across one shoulder. That will not look quite so lovely, I’m afraid.”

Isolde frowns. “Let me see. Perhaps we can have your hair arranged around—”

She reaches for the neck of my tunic and I panic. I block her hand with one forearm, ducking back and away. The movement takes only one short moment, but the arlessa stares at me in shock for at least twice as long and I can feel myself start to color under her gaze.

“I apologize,” I manage to get out, bobbing my head toward her. The movement is jerky and I know it, but my heart is still racing. “It—it’s painful to the touch,” I lie.

Isolde’s eyes tell me she doesn’t believe me, but she nods gracefully as if she does. “No apology necessary, my lady. I will see what the girls can do. Perhaps a half shawl for the back of the neck and shoulders, that seems very Fereldan…”

It’s only reluctantly that I let Isolde’s tailor take my measurements. The entire time, I’m careful of the fall of my hair and the back of my tunic, and by the end the woman is frustrated with my antics and I’m exhausted from the effort, but Isolde is confident the gown will be ready in time and assures me once it is, they will begin work on replacing the rest of my wardrobe. She raises her eyebrows at my request for no low cuts in the back, but does not question it.

I’ve only just escaped when Ilana finds me again. The blacksmith, she says, has a commission for a ship departing for the Free Marches next week and will see to my request afterward. I suppose I really couldn’t have hoped for anything better.

Reluctant to return to the infirmary after being cooped up there so long, I head for the library. I discover a volume on the Fourth Blight I’ve never read before and curl up on a couch with Dante at my feet. I make it about two paragraphs in when the regent, of all people, files into the library as well. I watch him nervously as he approaches, certain he’s here to question me about my strange behavior with his wife, until he smiles and tells me my new rooms are ready.

“Oh,” is all I can think to say for a long moment. “Thank you, your lordship.”

“Of course,” he says politely. “I will show you there, if you have a moment. It is the least we could do after the unfortunate incident the other night. I am quite glad you’re unharmed.”

I glance down at the bandages on my bare feet and decide not to point them out. But I do ask where we’re going when we turn the wrong way at the top of the first flight of steps.

“Your new suite is not in the guest wing,” the regent answers. His expression is odd, something between doubt and disapproval. “We were already preparing rooms for you near the king’s, for after the betrothal is announced. There are always patrols through the royal wing, and knights posted outside your rooms as well; they will brook no threat to you.”

Ah. Nearer the king, who undoubtedly masterminded this decision being pushed forward, which is of course why the regent is upset. “I… suppose that makes sense. What with the ball in two days and everything.”

The regent nods to a man in heavy armor as he passes us down the hall and then pauses mid-stride. When he pivots his head to look at me, there is the glint of an old warrior in his eyes. It reminds me unsettlingly of my father.

“King Alistair insisted you would not be comfortable staying in the infirmary, ‘surrounded by prying eyes,’ as he put it. And it was not an unreasonable request, with Wintersend so close. His Majesty is very considerate.”

“He is,” I agree slowly, though I still feel like there’s something coming that I’m not going to agree with nearly so completely.

Arl Eamon nods. “Though it must look something like weakness to anyone unused to kindnesses.”

I freeze, my brow furrowed as I stare at him. When he says nothing more, I count to five to stay my temper and say, “I… suppose it might. Is that what you think of me, lord regent? Because I can assure you, my parents were very kind to me. Even my brother, most of the time.”

He seems to consider me for a moment before he speaks again. “Yes, your humor is quite like his, isn’t it? But it is… unusual for the king to flatly disregard my counsel. Yet he has done so twice in three days, and both times for you. I simply worry. For his sake. Surely you can understand the concerns I might have of a headstrong queen for Alistair, after the… situation with Anora. Particularly one as clever as you’ve proven yourself to be.”

 _Like you worried for his sake when you sent him to sleep with dogs and then packed him away to the Chantry?_ The words are on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it and hold them back. I cross my arms loosely and shift my weight on the balls of my feet. I’m still not sure about words like “betrothed” and “marry,” so “queen,” headstrong or otherwise, makes me feel more than a little uncomfortable. But I won’t stand for what the regent is suggesting about me either.

“I didn’t realize I’m so much more intimidating than my reputation. Or did you _not_ reach out to my brother specifically because I fought for my people but never desired to lead them?”

The regent strokes his beard. “Perhaps we each give the other too little credit, my lady. It’s true that you are… more than I had expected. But I also knew Bryce and Eleanor to be kind and just rulers. I reasoned that if you were at all like them, you could be too.”

I hesitate before saying quietly, “Father called me ‘pup,’ because he said I was a little Sea Wolf. I hope that’s a good thing, as often as people say it. My mother could be terrifying about some things too, you know.”

This time, the regent smiles. “That does rather paint you in a different light. Perhaps I should be glad you did not see fit to throw Alistair off the deck of a warship upon meeting him.”

“There wasn’t one readily available,” I quip. “I had to settle for dueling him into the ground left-handed.”

“So I was told,” he says, then crosses his arms and becomes serious again. “But there was some gratitude involved in my decision as well. You marshaled such a small group so well after Highever fell, you kept Howe’s men destabilized. Too distracted to mount a proper offensive against the Wardens, so he had to resort to assassins and sellswords. Alistair can be as confident as he likes about the Hero of Ferelden, but they could not have survived the full numbers of Howe’s army in a concentrated attack. You may have saved his life, and for that, I am grateful.”

I don’t know what to think about that, and for some reason in the absence of wit, doubt creeps in. “You didn’t _tell_ Alistair that, did you? _That_ isn’t why he’s been kind to me?”

The regent smiles again. “No, my lady. Rest assured that whatever His Majesty has said or done is entirely a result of how _he_ thinks of you.”

We continue on down the hallway at last, and I find heat rising in my cheeks as I wonder just what that meant. Alistair is a good man. Sweet, thoughtful, and kinder than I had thought a king could be. And there’s definitely… _something_ I’ve felt for him. Something that made me bold enough to flirt with him just for the cute way he blushes and the brightness of his smile.

Is that the same sort of something he thinks about me?


	15. New Growth

I’m glaring down at the missive in front of me, wondering if it would make me a mage if I manage to actually burn a hole in it with the force of my hatred, when Eamon walks into my study.

“You’re working late again,” he observes, and I grunt noncommittally, unable to dredge up so much as a dry joke about how observant he is. Eamon knows me, so his frown deepens. “Is everything alright? Ill news from Orzammar?”

“Nothing that threatens the realm,” I manage, leaning back with a sigh and pinching the bridge of my nose. I’m going to have a headache after this. Can you get secondhand darkspawn sensing headaches from just reading about darkspawn? Probably not, I reason, not just because it’s highly unlikely but also because that’s not what’s really bothering me about the letter.

Eamon eyes me skeptically, then leans over my desk. “Who is Gorim Saelac? Do these reports not usually come from King Harrowmont?”

“Yes, they do,” I say, intentionally ignoring the first question and not really addressing the concern behind the second. I switch to misdirection instead. “What did you need? Are arriving nobles threatening duels for the best cheese appetizers? Demanding to know the color scheme of the ball in advance? Insisting I play mediator in the middle of a dance to make it more interesting? Don’t worry, whatever it is, I can take it.”

“Nothing quite so… colorful,” Eamon says with a raised eyebrow. “I meant to inform you Lady Cousland is settling into her new rooms. As much as one may ‘settle’ when almost entirely bereft of possessions.”

I frown again at that. “As usual, you raise a good point. I feel responsible for something like this happening in the palace, Eamon. She should have been safe here.”

“She is and will be,” Eamon assures me. “The knights have taken quite a liking to her, you know. They’ve missed her coming to train with them. And that Ser Haywood hasn’t stopped singing her praises since he accompanied her into the city. They will let no one near her now they know someone has a way into the palace.”

“Speaking of,” I prompt, and he sighs.

“Still nothing, Your Majesty. On how someone managed to infiltrate the palace or the whereabouts of Talverd Wainwright. It is possible the two are unrelated. We could simply have a spy among the servants.”

“As much as it makes me feel _better_ that there might be twice as many people out there that want to hurt her, continue pursuing both leads and let’s hope they meet in the middle,” I order dryly, resting my chin on one fist while I tap my quill against the report with my other hand. “Have we tried to replace what we can of what she lost?”

Eamon instantly begins to spout off what might as well have been a numbered list. “Isolde has her tailors working non-stop on replacing the lady’s wardrobe. Something suitable has already been altered to fit her for the ball, and I understand her signet ring and Teyrna Eleanor’s jewels survived the fire. I’ve also been told the blacksmith has been delivered her armor and daggers to repair any fire damage. Should I instruct him to expedite the process?”

“Have him focus on the daggers first,” I decide. “I will sleep better when she can defend herself properly again, and I daresay she will as well.”

Eamon nods, bowing. “Very good, Your Majesty. Anything else?”

“You tell me; you came to find me,” I remind him.

Eamon bows and heads for the door, but pauses at the doorframe. “Lady Cousland is no less awkward with her honesty than you, Alistair. She suits you.”

Before I can register the comment well enough to ask what it means, he is gone and I’m left alone to draft a response to a letter I don’t really want to deign to acknowledge. But I must, because I’m the king and this is the closest to Grey Warden business I’ll ever be allowed again, but I hope Gorim can somehow read my distaste for him in the stroke of my pen.

He’s been elevated to nobility, because of her. Because even though he abandoned her to start a family after swearing to wait for her, he was still technically her second. I guess I must have imagined being the shield at her back through the entire Blight.

I want to ask if he abandoned his new wife and child on the surface to reclaim his spot in Orzammar like he left Sereda when she became inconvenient, but I don’t. I also want to point out it’s Leliana that really loved her, that stood by her side until the end and sang through tears at her memorial, but I don’t do that either. But this is one of those times it’s hard to be King Alistair. Because Alistair the Grey Warden just wants to march down to Orzammar and challenge the coward in the Proving grounds.

I finally finish a letter that sounds official and stiff, and sign it with an angry scrawl because that’s the best I can do. This can’t be what Sereda made me king for. As I seal it with a defeated sigh and retreat to my room, I wonder again just why she did it. Was it just because she hated Anora, or did she really see a king inside me somewhere? Every time I ask myself the question, I seem to come up with a different answer.

Tonight, I think maybe she did. I definitely wouldn’t have thought a year ago that I had it in me to be anything less than hostile to the likes of Gorim Saelac, and yet here I am. Growth, Wynne would have called it. Putting on my grown-ass man pants and realizing they sodding fit, Sereda would have corrected. She used that saying on me a lot.

On my way back to my chambers, I pass guards outside a door that’s never been guarded before and my thoughts shift. I wonder again what Sereda would have thought of Nalissa. Strangely, I find that it seems less important now than the first time I wondered. After everything that’s happened and everything she’s confided even when she didn’t have to, I trust my own judgment of Nalissa Cousland. Now if I could just trust the way she makes me feel.

My stomach leaps somewhere into the realm of my chest at the thought of her, and that can’t be normal. Certainly, she is lovely, empathetic, smart. But so are plenty of other women, and I don’t smile at the thought of any of them. A rather scantily clad lady pirate in a bar once even called me a ‘sweet thing,’ but that decidedly did not have the same effect as Nalissa saying I was sweet. Well, other than the mad blushing spell.

But the point, I think as I struggle to reclaim the thread of my own thoughts, is that Nalissa is a different kind of woman. Sure, she’s born from nobility but at her heart she’s a fighter, a survivor, a _protector_ , and that’s something I can understand. She doesn’t just empathize, she _acts_ —she digs in her heels where others might not spare the effort. It isn’t even right to call her smart; she’s more crafty, or witty, maybe. And Maker, do I like the way her eyes flicker when she’s about to deliver a sarcastic retort to one of my jokes.

It’s a complication I hadn’t expected when Eamon made these arrangements, actually… _feeling_ something for this woman I’m supposed to marry. I had wanted to, of course, because who would want to marry someone they hate? But I had expected it to be something difficult, that a lot of work would be required to think of it as more than an obligation. I _hadn’t_ expected to just realize one morning I much preferred the days we sparred or had lunch together to those we didn’t, or that I really didn’t want her to leave with her brother after the ball. No matter how scary the actual getting married thing still is.

I’m being ridiculous, I decide as I settle into bed, staring up at the ceiling. King or not, I’m allowed to like the woman I’m going to marry. And she called me _sweet_ and _handsome_ , didn’t she? My mind repeats the words in her voice, and even lying alone in the dark, I can feel a little heat rising off my face and the start of a smile. _Maybe she likes me too._

I roll over onto my pillow and bury my face in it to smother the smile before I can get away from myself. She might not. She might have only been being polite. Maybe tomorrow I’ll ask her. I’m sure I have _just_ the right words for that! ‘By the way, Nalissa, I know your brother and my uncle have decided we should be married, but do you actually like me at all or is that just business?’ A perfectly natural question, I’m sure I can work it into any conversation seamlessly.

Maker’s breath, maybe this _will_ be something as difficult as I’d imagined.

* * *

Ilana shakes me awake somewhere in the dark before dawn to inform me a carriage has arrived from Highever. I dress quickly in yet another set of clothes borrowed from Venya and a pair of slippers from the regent’s wife, then hurry down the hall and steps to the courtyard. Whatever issue arose on the Black Coast must have been a simpler matter than Fergus had let on for him to return so quickly, but I’m glad. That is, until I arrive at the gates and find the occupant of the carriage to be here for Ilana, not for me.

“Lady Cousland,” a broad-shouldered elven man just near my height greets me with a half bow. He can’t give a proper one for the sleeping toddler in his arms, a little girl with bronze skin and auburn hair like her father’s. Though her eyes are closed, I know they’re pale blue-silver like her mother’s. Ilana will be overjoyed to see her family has arrived, and though I’m disappointed Fergus isn’t with them, I realize suddenly this means my brother has changed his mind and is allowing Ilana to stay in Denerim with me.

“Did Fergus have you traveling through the night?!” I realize, suddenly aghast. “Why would he do such a dangerous thing?!”

“Do not worry, my lady,” says a jovial voice, and a man in chainmail leaps down from a seat beside the driver. He’s tall and tan and overly confident as he continues, “I assured his lordship they would be safe from all harm with my escort.”

I have to bite back a sigh and only just manage it. Timmond Prior is a knight of Highever, one of the few that made it through Howe’s treachery relatively unscathed. I say relatively as he does have a long scar from shoulder to elbow on his sword arm that he loves to show off, but which impairs only his temperament, not his fighting. As insufferable as he was growing up, he’s only been worse in the past year with his sudden promotion to senior knight status.

“Of course you did, Ser Prior,” I say as patiently as I can manage. “But why did my brother feel the need to take such drastic measures to ensure their safety? Surely they could have waited for morning to depart.”

“His lordship wished the delivery be made straightaway,” the knight says, offering me a sealed letter but keeping another one like it tucked suspiciously away at his side. “I do believe the king’s letter worried him.”

I wonder if my eyebrows haven’t shot all the way up into my hair. “The _king’s_ letter? Alistair wrote him? Whatever for?”

“That’ll tell you, I expect,” he answers with a shrug, and I break the familiar seal with pursed lips.

 

> _Lissa,_
> 
> _We’ll have a talk when I return about me having to hear about a_ _fire_ _from the king instead of from you, but I’m glad to hear you’re safe, even if you didn’t think to tell me yourself. I’ve had the maids pack up some of the things you left behind at home in the hopes it may replace whatever was lost. Mother would rise from her pyre in shame to think you were walking around the palace in garb unbecoming a lady, after all. And yes, I asked them to include the rest of your collection of daggers. Maker knows no one here will have use for them, but do try not to look like you’re plotting a dramatic assault on the palace._
> 
> _The king suggested in his missive that you would be most comfortable staying in Denerim with Ilana by your side, so I have also endeavored to have her husband and daughter sent to join her posthaste. Please deliver to His Majesty my compliments and thanks for assuring me of your continued safety when you couldn’t be bothered to tell me you were hurt. I hope all is well in time for the ball._
> 
> _Stay safe, little sister. I would not know what to do if I lost you too._
> 
> _-Fergus_

I’m not sure whether to roll my eyes or be grateful for my brother’s effort, and for some stupid reason that makes my eyes burn. I blink a few times quickly and tuck away the letter in a pocket at my hip, then look up to find Ser Prior staring at me curiously.

“Are you quite alright, my lady?” he ventures with a smirk. “Was it not you that just two fortnights ago threatened to shred the next thing the seamstress brought you in pale yellow?”

“Yes, well, needs must,” I tell him dismissively. With Tim, it’s best not to give him more information than strictly necessary, and already we’ve all been standing out here at the gates for too long. I task him with carrying the chest containing my daggers just to keep him busy, and by the time he’s started off with it, Ilana has arrived. I watch her gush happily over her husband and coo to her sleepy daughter before we begin unloading the carriage.

Much to my chagrin, even after the unloading is completed and I’ve located my favorite long, deep blue tunic with lace details and a pair of soft leather boots to change into and feel more like myself, Ser Prior is still waiting outside my door. I interrupt what’s surely his second telling of the battle for the Cousland armory with a raised eyebrow, and he gives a sweeping bow I’ve yet to figure out how one can manage in armor.

“Shouldn’t you be heading home, Ser Prior?” I ask pointedly, to which he responds with a grin.

“Not as yet, my lady. His lordship specially instructed me to stay on as your guard until his return. I told him, I did, ‘The lady’s been a faster blade than I since I came to the castle,’ but he wasn’t to be swayed.”

“Of course he wasn’t,” I mutter darkly. And of course, likely because it makes it seem quite important, Ser Prior takes his bodyguard assignment quite seriously. By the time I make it to breakfast, Alistair has already gone and I’m left listening to the latest gossip out of the barracks in Highever. When I try to retreat to the library, I find it overrun with young noblemen newly in Denerim for the ball tomorrow and ladies huddled and giggling over the spines of books at them. Finally I discover the garden empty and, desperate for a moment’s peace, remind Ser Prior of his remaining letter still awaiting delivery to the king. He disappears toward the throne room and I rub my hands over my face wearily. This is going to be a long… however long it takes for Fergus to return. Maker, what if he sent a knight because it’s going to take much longer than expected?!

I let my hands fall with a sigh and almost jump in surprise, because none other than Alistair is making his way through the garden toward me. I look around quickly, but thankfully Ser Prior is already out of sight.

“Sweet Maker, _please_ sit down and try to look as un-kingly as possible,” I whisper sharply, grasping at his arm and dragging him toward a bench by his bicep. He looks a little stunned but doesn’t resist, something between confusion and amusement in his amber eyes as I hastily explain, “My brother sent a blighted _bodyguard_ because _someone_ sent him a letter about the fire, and I only got rid of him by reminding him he has a letter for you. If he sees you and turns straight around, I swear on Andraste’s ashes I’ll… I don’t know, something terrible. Forget how to dance at the ball or something. You’re not as easy to threaten as Fergus, you know that?”

A grin has been broadening on his face as I spoke, but it’s only when I stop that he lets it erupt into a laugh. “Apparently not! That’s hardly a good threat anyway. At least that way, there would be someone else looking foolish with me. In fact, maybe it’s motivation, maybe I should just shout that I’m the—”

“Don’t you dare!” I hiss, trying to look stern despite the corners of my mouth trying to betray me with a smile. “I’m already angry at you for that letter, you know. It’s like you don’t even want to be forgiven!”

Alistair sobers and looks like he might actually believe me. “I _am_ sorry if I made your brother worried. I only meant to reassure him nothing would happen to threaten you again. I didn’t think you wouldn’t tell him—you two seem so close.”

“Write him how, with a quill in my mouth?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. He looks sheepish at the oversight, and this time I can’t restrain the smile. “It’s okay. I’m not really mad at you, you meant well. And he would only have been more upset if he found out later.”

The king frowns at that. “What do you mean, ‘more upset?’ Was he angry with you?”

I can actually feel my smile turning dry and a little bitter. “Fergus doesn’t really get angry at me anymore so much as frustratingly _concerned_. Like I’m eight years old and helpless, and then it rubs off on everyone else and they all look at me like that. It’s maddening.”

Alistair grins, one of those easy smiles that makes his eyes soften. “Would it help if I promise I’m completely incapable of ever thinking you’re helpless? I’m still half convinced you never actually passed out on that balcony. You were just lulling the fire into a false sense of security.”

At that, it’s my turn to laugh. “That’s a terrible lie, but thank you. See, this is why I like you.”

“O-oh?”

Color tinges his cheeks when I look back at him, and it makes me want to laugh again but I stifle the urge. How he can manage to sound so smooth one moment and then so awkward the next seems like a paradox.

“More, uh… than you expected to, you mean?” he asks in what I’m fairly sure is meant to be an offhand way, but his voice rises in pitch when he says it and I look at him curiously.

Alistair is fidgeting, tapping his fingers nervously, and like so many other things he does, it’s oddly endearing. So are the freckles on the back of his hands that match the ones scattered across his face. I glance up at his eyes, the color of warm honey in the pale morning light, and this time I see it. It’s a different kind of nervousness than his usual half-joking self doubt, the kind that makes him hesitate to meet my gaze and tugs at something in my chest that feels at once hopeful and a tiny bit frightening.

I recognize the way he’s looking at me, even if I haven’t seen it in what feels like an Age. It makes me feel warm from the inside, like a cup of hot tea. Exhilarated, like standing with my toes over the edge of a cliff and watching the sea. Maybe even a little worried, because everything I’ve ever cared about in my life is now either gone or irreparably changed. But this time I don’t feel guilty, and quite unexpectedly, I find that I’m glad.

I’m allowed to care about the man I’m supposed to marry, if he’s someone as kind and thoughtful as Alistair. I feel myself smiling as that thought flutters like a butterfly trapped inside my ribs, and my voice is a little softer than usual as I admit, perhaps even to myself as much as to him, “Quite a bit more than I expected to, I think.”

He almost laughs, a quiet exhalation that might be nerves, and his shoulders relax beside me. “Oh good, at least I’m not the only one. That makes me feel a bit less foolish.”

I quirk an eyebrow at him. “To like yourself more than you expected to? You really must have had a low opinion of yourself before becoming king.”

But Alistair’s soft brown eyes are serious, and I know he won’t fall into the diversion even before he smiles and says dryly, “You have no idea. But not quite what I meant, actually. It makes me feel better about giving you this.”

I have just enough time to tilt my head in curiosity before he pulls a flower seemingly from nowhere and turns it between his fingers. It’s a rose with lovely red petals, in full bloom and so bright I wonder if I must have forgotten and it became spring while I wasn’t looking.

“It’s lovely,” I say, then look back to him curiously. “How in the world did you manage to find it in winter?”

Alistair smiles, and this time it’s not the bright, easy one he usually gives me. It’s slow and tentative, like he isn’t quite sure what he’s saying but still means every word of it. “It is. Actually, I ah—I passed it in the garden the other morning, on the way to see you in the infirmary, and I thought of you. Maybe that’s… strange, I don’t know, but it was the only bloom and I remember thinking how resilient it was to grow in the cold like that. How it was even more beautiful for being the only bright spot in the garden, even if it has its thorns. And I thought of you.”

Ever since I was a little girl—probably ever since I learned to talk—I’ve always had a way of finding the right words to soothe or escalate any situation I’ve found myself in. A gift or a curse depending how I used it, my mother used to say. But in this moment, looking at the uncertain but intense expression of the man beside me, I have no idea what to say.

“I… thank you, Alistair. That’s so sweet of you. I, ah, hadn’t taken you for a romantic.”

“Yes, well, don’t let the word get out,” he says, running a hand through his hair awkwardly. He seems to catch himself and goes still and quiet again, then passes me the rose, his fingers lingering over the top of mine as he meets my eyes. “We can’t let everyone know I actually like the woman I’m supposed to marry, after all.”

I chuckle quietly and brush my thumb against his hand. “Of course not. It would be quite the scandal. Plus Fergus would never let me live it down.”

He smiles again, a little more certainly this time, and I’m just thinking that a little more confidence suits him when a voice interrupts, “Oy, who—wait, are you King Alistair?”

I groan and pinch the bridge of my nose, because I don’t have to turn to check who’s speaking. I know Timmond Prior’s voice well enough.

Alistair sits up straighter and pulls both his hands back into his own lap. “I suppose I am—unless you’re here to complain about something, of course.”

“Of course not, Your Majesty,” the knight says with one of his overly graceful bows. “I’m Ser Prior of Highever, here with a letter from his lordship for you. Apologies, I didn’t so much know what you looked like.”

He hands over the letter, then shoots me a grin. “Should’ve figured straightaway, when I saw him sitting with you, my lady. He’s even got red hair.”

If it were possible to actually look daggers at someone, he might have dropped dead right there. Leave it to Tim to draw parallels where there were none, and with five words make me hate him all over again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the update being a couple of days late. My cousin was in the ICU for 10 days after a motorcycle wreck and still has a long way to go, so I've been reading more than writing during his surgeries to distract myself. Hopefully it hasn't affected update quality. It's been a bit harder to get into the right headspace for writing this chapter, but I needed to channel things somewhere.


	16. Cards on the Table

I wake with my stomach tied in knots and only dare to attempt the blandest breakfast I can find. Nalissa looks better than I feel—like she’s actually had a decent night’s sleep for once—but she keeps pausing between bites and then shaking her head slightly before she starts to move again, like she’s forgetting how to swallow or eat or breathe.

I won’t see her again until the ball, and the interim is a huge blur. I’m vaguely aware of greeting dignitaries, ambassadors, a slew of noblemen I should probably remember. A courier arrives with news that hopefully isn’t urgent, because it completely slips my mind. A tailor insists on ensuring the fit of my clothes for the ball hasn’t changed since yesterday, and I oblige because it’s distracting and I need to be distracted. Finally, Eamon steers me by the elbow toward my room and gives a speech I can’t quite make out over the blood pounding in my ears. Something about olives going well with cheese, or the heart of a great bee. No, on second thought, probably not either of those things.

Everything still sounds a little muffled as I approach the ballroom, but maybe that’s just from the doors being closed, because as soon as they open I feel like I’m struck in the face by a wall of sound and color. People are talking and laughing at first, brightly colored dresses swirling every which way, but when a page announces my arrival as he probably has everyone else already, the din of voices dies down. I can feel all the eyes in the room turning, pinning me in place, and it makes my skin itch until the bowing interrupts the eye contact. Thankfully, Teagan is close and joins me before everyone staring can make me say anything stupid, but it’s a close thing.

He’s newly returned from Redcliffe, where he’s in the process of inheriting the arling from his brother so Eamon can stay in Denerim full-time, so he has plenty to talk about. I find myself only half listening as I scan the crowd until I realize with a little disappointment that Nalissa isn’t here yet. I focus a little better, make a few small jokes about issues in the castle to assure Teagan I’m not in fact too terrified of all these people to speak, and try to listen only absently to the announcements of later arrivals. It works until I hear her name.

“Presenting Lady Nalissa Aine Elethea Cousland of Highever.”

My head turns toward the announcement and so does Teagan’s. Then the whispers begin. I can hear a woman to my right gasp in a scandalized tone, “Lady _Cousland_? Why, she hasn’t made a public appearance since—”

“Since young gossips like yourself started whispering she was an invalid?” chastises an older lord with a scoff.

“Yes, I heard she was gravely wounded during the Blight, in fact—”

“ _I_ heard she had her mind broken by Howe’s treachery and nearly killed one of her own knights thinking it was him!”

Whether she can hear their exact words or not I can’t say, but Nalissa smiles like she can’t and gives a graceful curtsy. The way her gown catches the light as she does, violet shot through with delicate gold thread shimmering in the candlelight, makes her look like something out of a faery tale.

“She hardly looks crazy to me,” someone mutters, and Teagan crosses his arms.

“Surely you haven’t all forgotten that she once dueled a bann into a fountain for insulting her skill,” he says, pointedly but not loud enough for Nalissa to hear. “Are you so certain how she feels about gossip?”

A couple of throats clear, a few feet shift awkwardly, and then Teagan navigates through the crowd toward her. I follow in his wake, not that anyone is unwilling to move aside for the king. Nalissa sees me first and I receive a nervous sort of smile—a more real one, I think—before she shifts back to her polite one for Teagan.

“Bann Guerrin,” she greets him, and he takes her hand with a slight bow.

“Lady Cousland,” he returns with a smile of his own. “How lovely to see you again. I heard you were staying at the palace with your brother when he had to depart with some haste. I trust everything is alright?”

“Nothing he can’t handle, I assure you,” she answers. “Border disputes never choose the best time, you know how these things are.”

Teagan laughs. “I presumed nothing he couldn’t handle, or he would have brought you, my lady.”

Nalissa raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Daggers typically aren’t a necessary part of resolving a border dispute. Not the proper way, at any rate.”

Teagan just smiles again and says, “Perhaps not, but grace certainly is, and that you have in spades. Might you care for a dance, to demonstrate?”

There’s something light and smooth about the way he’s speaking that rubs me the wrong way. Is he… flirting with her? The thought reminds me of something, a vague mention before I’d even met her that I hadn’t thought important at the time. But hadn’t Eamon said something about Teagan once having an interest in Nalissa himself?

While I’m trying to recall what exactly Eamon had said, Nalissa agrees politely and lets Teagan take her hand to lead her onto the dance floor. I’m frozen in place for a moment, until I catch her glancing back at me over her shoulder. It’s only a slight turn of her head, a flicker of her eyes, but it quiets the doubt blooming in my chest just a little.

I’m pretty sure Eamon had said Teagan’s interest wasn’t returned—pretty sure. But she’s smiling and nodding to whatever he’s saying when I spot them through the crowd again, and I moodily take a glass of wine from a passing servant. It’s my own fault for not asking her to dance first, of course, but I hadn’t expected _Teagan_ to beat me to it. He probably isn’t stepping on her toes either, I think. I’ve heard that’s something women look for in dancing partners.

By the time the song ends, I’ve polished off the glass of wine but more importantly, managed to remind myself I’m being an idiot. So what if Teagan’s a better dancer than I am? _A dance_ isn’t going to change the way she thinks or earn anyone else that smile she gave me yesterday, the one that softened her eyes and erased everything else from her face like there was nothing else important in the world. Still I’m glad when their dance ends with the song and they find their way back toward me, and Teagan isn’t leading her around the ballroom by the hand anymore.

“Just as I said—the picture of grace, as always, my lady,” he says with a bob of his head.

“I’m rather surprised I haven’t forgotten the steps, honestly,” Nalissa responds. “I used to love dancing, but I’ve hardly had the opportunity in years now.”

I can see Teagan working up his most charming smile again and this time I know what he’s going to say, so I beat him to it.

“Then would you like to dance with me?” I ask, trying to sound as normal as possible, but I think I end up with too much emphasis on the last word. If so, Nalissa doesn’t comment, just gives me a smile with a little too much humor in it to be strictly polite.

“Of course, Your Majesty,” she says with a quirk of her eyebrow, and it’s a moment before I remember to offer her my hand. I’ll never be very good at this, I think, but it feels much better to be the one escorting her to the dance floor.

“Ready to try this with real people around?” she whispers out of one corner of her mouth so no one can see, but I can read the smile in her eyes before her lips twitch up mischievously. “I’ll prod them out of the way with a dagger, if you need.”

I smile too, and feel a little less nervous as I position my hand on her back and make sure my feet are in the right place. Maybe that was her plan. “As much as I’d prefer not to be stared at, it’s going to happen anyway, dancing with the most beautiful lady here.”

A blush starts on her cheekbones and in her surprise, she’s the one that almost misses the first step. Her hand tightens on my shoulder for a moment, then she recovers and moves as gracefully as before. But the little chuckle she gives me says that while my sudden bout of boldness might have caught her off guard, it isn’t unwelcome.

“I think the crown and all that confidence you’ve suddenly found to match it might factor into the stares just a little,” she counters before her voice softens and turns a little lower. “But to be fair, any woman with eyes would probably have them on you anyway. Even if you were passing out hors d’oeuvres in the corner.”

I can feel my ears and the back of my neck burning, but manage a chuckle. “You might be _slightly_ exaggerating.”

Nalissa looks up at me with that lovely, soft smile from yesterday and says in a quiet voice not meant to be overheard, “Not even a little.”

We’ve danced for three songs when the music shifts to something a little too fast for my unpracticed feet. Before I can make a fool of myself, Nalissa suggests we take a break for a drink and I agree gratefully. Her hand lingers in mine as we break apart, and I wonder if she doesn’t want to let go.

Within a few minutes, we’ve acquired wine and a couple of tiny Orlesian cakes from one of the servers. Then, insisting she needs a moment to hear her own thoughts without the crowd, Nalissa steers us to a corner, somehow opens a door off the hall, and we escape into a small antechamber that was until now perfectly deserted.

“Wait, doesn’t this lead back up to the royal wing?” I realize aloud, noting which side of the ballroom we’ve exited from. “Shouldn’t this have been locked?”

“It was,” she answers with a rather impish sort of smirk, twirling a small piece of metal between her fingers that it takes me a second to recognize as a lock pick. “I did mention I’ve yet to meet the lock that can keep me out? I’ve always been a fan of knowing all the ways out of any given place, but _slightly_ more so since Howe’s attack, funny enough. I may have figured out those stairs in the next room led here about ten minutes after the regent brought me to my new room.”

I shake my head in amazement at virtually every part of that. “You really are incredible,” I tell her honestly, and she smiles a little but looks down.

“I’m really not. It’s something I picked up when I was young to have a way out of uncomfortable situations at other people’s parties.”

“Well, it comes in handy,” I point out, gesturing around us. “No one watching my every move for a moment is nice.” I hesitate a moment before adding, “But I thought you were enjoying yourself.”

“I was,” Nalissa says quickly, putting down her now mostly empty glass of wine on a small table with a vase on it and looking up at me. “I do like to dance; it’s my favorite thing about these parties.”

“Sorry I’m not very good at it,” I murmur, but she chuckles at me.

“You’re better than you think you are. At the one whole dance you know,” she teases with a smile. “You’ve even picked up that most noblemen use the close quarters as a chance to flirt, so I’d say you’re a natural.”

Something coils unexpectedly in my stomach, and I wonder if Teagan did the same. “I’m sure they do that better than me too, then,” I guess dryly, and she actually laughs.

“Alistair, when one of those men tells me I’m beautiful, it’s because he covets my family name or thinks he can charm me into his bed.” Nalissa’s smile turns softer and she reaches up to touch me, pulling my chin down with her thumb until I look at her. I hadn’t realized I had looked away, or that she had moved so close, and my heart leaps into my throat under her gaze. Her voice is barely more than a whisper as she says, “But you’re different. You’ve seen parts of me I don’t show anyone and you still meant it when you said it. That… means more to me than you know.”

I’m always unsure, with touch, whether it’s too much or not—between growing up in the stables and then in the monastery, I’ve never exactly learned the rules. But the way her sea-green eyes look up at me through her lashes and the gentle brush of her fingertips against my jaw make me feel like there’s a lightning storm building in my chest. Her eyes flicker down to my mouth and I take it as a sign that I’m not out of line to want so badly to kiss her, that maybe she wants that too.

The moment I move, so does Nalissa, her hand on my face sliding around to the back of my neck just as our lips meet, and my hesitation melts away at her gentle touch. The electricity crackling in my chest arcs into my veins, the hair at my nape standing up at the caress of her fingertips. Her hands have calluses like mine from her blades, but Maker’s breath, her lips are _soft_ and the way they move against mine steals my breath away.

It’s a long moment before she pulls back but when she does, she lets out a long, low breath that makes me think she might have forgotten to breathe too. “Was—was that too sudden?” I worry aloud, unable to read the look on her face. I realize with some surprise that my hands have found their way to the small of her back and I let them slide to her sides, so she doesn’t feel trapped if she wants to pull away entirely.

Instead she laughs softly and runs her fingers through the short hair at the back of my head. “Sudden? I don’t think I could have given any clearer signals, short of actually writing a note that read, ‘Kiss me, Alistair.’ Somehow that felt less romantic, but if you’d prefer it, let me know.”

I smile sheepishly, but the electric thrum under my skin still makes me too warm and happy to be properly embarrassed. “To be fair, even if you had I would _probably_ still worry I read it wrong.”

Nalissa grins and stands on her tiptoes to kiss me again, a short one this time but still enough to start the crackling in my chest. “If that’s still not clear enough, I can keep trying,” she says with a wicked little smile.

“I wouldn’t say no to a little more practice,” I pretend to muse, and she shakes her head with a chuckle.

“Definitely. But later. If we don’t show our faces in the ballroom again soon, the regent may send out a search party.”

She retrieves her glass of wine, then squeezes my hand as if for strength before we head out to the ball again. We receive more than a few looks and whispers, but I can’t decide if there are actually any more of them than before. I understand why Nalissa wanted to get away from this all for a moment.

But the thought of her lips on mine makes me smile anyway, and I begin to think that maybe the announcement that comes next won’t be so hard after all.

* * *

I can’t say if it’s the wine tingling on my lips or the memory of Alistair’s, but it’s actually easy to smile after we head back into the ballroom. The whispering and side glances suddenly don’t bother me, and it’s nice not to have to pretend.

The regent hasn’t come to look for us yet, presumably saving the big announcement for the high point of the night, but I’m a little less nervous than before. I can stand straight and smile politely under any pressure, it’s what I was raised to do, but an hour ago I had felt like I was shaking inside and now I feel warm instead.

I hadn’t planned it, not at first, just needed to escape the comments under everyone’s breath. I missed having allies in all the castle staff to accidentally spill wine on a lady’s new gown or trip an indiscreet lord in front of his peers if they spoke too loudly. That thought had led to lamenting that the palace wasn’t like home, then the abrupt realization that it would _become_ home after this, and the desperate need for wine and solitude.

But Alistair seems to be becoming an exception to my deeply ingrained need to be alone when I can’t quite mask what I feel anymore. I had even been glad for the company while I caught my breath, and then realized we were actually alone for the first time since the morning before.

I had wanted to kiss him when he gave me the rose, for the things he’d said and for how stunning he’d looked with the pale morning sunlight glinting in his eyes and hair. So when he seemed insecure and I reminded him how much his gentle reassurances meant to me, I gave him every sign I could think of to let him make the first move. Not that I’m afraid of making the first one, by any means… but some small part of me was still afraid someone like him couldn’t really want someone like me.

I smile again at the thought of his lips on mine, still distracted by the butterflies floating around inside my ribcage when the regent finds us. He gives what I’m sure is meant to be a reassuring smile and says that it’s time, and ushers Alistair to the front of the room where the page has been announcing arrivals. I wait at the edge of the crowd as instructed while the regent speaks on the history and importance of the annum, and my stomach flips when he gets to the tradition of marriages being arranged. I can _feel_ a few eyes turn in my direction, and I lift my chin and step forward as Arl Guerrin confirms the suspicions.

The regent takes my hand as I approach and places it in Alistair’s, and though my heart still beats rampant against my ribs, his grip is reassuring. I find it easier to smile again, even if there are more than a few looks of disbelief or outright anger. Some of these ladies, no doubt, had had their own plans to try to win the king’s attention at the ball. But he is only the king to them; to me, he is Alistair, someone too warm and kind and funny to be treated as an objective instead of a person. And even though I know he’s a little terrified too, he squeezes my hand encouragingly and I give him a grateful smile.

Unsurprisingly, the first to step forward with congratulations is Arl Bryland. He first bows formally, then breaks into a smile and hugs me like he used to when I was a little girl.

“Bryce would have been so proud of you, little spitfire,” he says quietly before gripping Alistair’s forearm like they were comrades at arms. “So it’s a warrior queen you’ve chosen, you realize? She’ll be just as fearsome as any archdemon if you don’t treat her right.”

Alistair laughs out the words, “Oh, I’m sure of that!” Then he shoots me a quick look from the corner of his eyes that makes my face feel warm again before adding, “But if I were to hurt her, I would deserve far worse.”

Arl Bryland smiles, and I can see in the twinkle of his eyes that he caught Alistair’s glance and my flush. I remember what he had said in the market weeks ago, that he only wanted me to be happy again, and suddenly I am immeasurably grateful for Leonas Bryland. If there’s anyone left whose opinion gives me a good idea what my father would be thinking, it’s him.

The next voice to make itself known is much less welcome. Vaughan Kendells drawls his congratulations in a rather drunken way that makes me concerned for the welfare of the serving staff. And it only gets worse from there.

Waiting not far behind is a face that freezes the blood in my veins. I don’t know him exactly, but I recognize him anyway. He’s tall and broad-shouldered with a shock of deeply red hair, though thankfully that’s where the similarities end. His eyes are blue instead of green, his chin pointed, and he wears his hair longer than his brother ever did.

“Lady Cousland!” he greets me with a low bow, and his voice is just the wrong side of familiar. “I had no idea when my father sent me that I should be preparing congratulations as well as thanks!”

“Lord Gilmore,” I answer slowly, and there must be an edge of _something_ to my voice, because Alistair shifts at my side and Roderick’s older brother looks concerned as he straightens his back.

“All apologies if my message is unwelcome, my lady.”

“No, of course not,” I respond, summoning my willpower and what I hope is a convincing smile. “I simply didn’t expect you to be here. I had thought your father’s land was still recovering from the Blight.”

“Oh, it is,” he says sadly. “The darkspawn managed to corrupt a great deal of our farmland. But no amount of martial presence will solve that, so Father sent me to Denerim to extend his thanks.”

I shake my head in confusion and he smiles. “For the letter from your family, my lady. About Roderick. Father appreciated the sentiment a great deal. He wished me to say how glad he is that Teyrn Cousland’s patronage afforded my brother the chance to give his life for something that mattered.”

The man might as well have punched me in the gut. It certainly feels like he did. ‘Something that mattered’—as if Roderick’s life was a bargaining chip that had paid off with the regards of my family.

“He died upholding his oath,” I say shortly. “Your family should be proud.”

Lord Gilmore thanks me like I’m not a liar and gives way to dozens of others like him, come to offer felicitations to Alistair and to me. I smile politely and thank them all, but their names and faces blur.

I slip away once a respectable number of the guests have left, when it’s less likely to be noticed. I should have expected Alistair would realize anyway though. He finds me easily enough, leaning against the battlements and watching the clouds in his favorite hiding spot that’s now become mine too.

“No stolen bottle of rum this time?” he asks as he leans on his forearms on the parapet beside me.

“Not this time,” I answer quietly and when I say nothing else, he reaches for my hand and envelops it in his own. His touch is warm as always and I want to lean toward him for comfort, but I don’t. I owe him the truth first.

“I lied to Lord Gilmore back there,” I say slowly, without daring to look over at Alistair. “Roderick didn’t die for his oath to Highever. He died because he loved me and it was all he could do to try and save me. I loved him too, and you should know that. It isn’t fair if you don’t.”

Alistair lets out a long, low breath and I flinch, waiting for him to pull his hand away. Instead, his grip tightens. “I know,” he says, and when I look at him in surprise, he’s smiling a little sadly. “I put it together from something Ilana said. But I’m glad you told me.”

I hesitate, watching him closely for a moment, but his reaction isn’t what I had expected. “You knew? And you still… You’re not angry?”

“That you loved someone who died protecting you?” he asks, sounding very much like he thinks I’m being absurd. “Why should I be angry about that?”

I open my mouth to speak, close it, then shake my head before I can find words again. “He was a _knight_. The fourth son of a lord so minor, his corner of the Bannorn might never recover from the Blight.”

Alistair shrugs. “Until a year ago, I was the bastard son of a scullery maid whose greatest accomplishment was not dying in the Joining. Forgive me for not shuddering that you didn’t hold a man’s pedigree against him.”

“Anyone else would,” I admit, rubbing my elbow with my free hand and looking down, though it’s too dark to see the ocean. “Fergus would have fits if he knew I told you.”

Alistair turns toward me, this time taking both of my hands in his and waiting for me to look up before he speaks. “Nalissa, I don’t care if you loved a traveling apostate that made a living by turning water into cheese. I—I might care if you still love him, maybe. If you’ll spend the rest of your life wishing I was him.”

He clears his throat, fidgeting a little with his thumb on the back of my hand. “I know I haven’t known you very long, and I—well, I’ll probably never know you as well as someone that’s known you all your life. But I… I care for you. A great deal. I’m glad you told me because I’m… well, I’m rather hoping it means you might not just _like_ me. That maybe you could come to care for me too.”

Even in the dim light, I can see the uncertain way his chin dips as his eyes search mine. It stings a little that he doubts, but I can’t blame him for it. Not so very long ago, I had thought my heart empty forever. Now, I don’t hesitate.

“Alistair, I already do. I wouldn’t have kissed you if I didn’t.” The smile that breaks across his face is brighter than the moonlight and I smile back at him like an instinct, like I don’t know how to stop myself when he looks at me like that. Obviously I don’t, because I also can’t keep from adding, “And I would never wish you were anyone else.”

This time he kisses me with no warning, his hand leaving a trail of warmth up my arm on its way to my cheek. I lean into him like I wanted to in the beginning, butterflies bursting to life inside my ribs again, and a little thrill runs up my spine at the thought that there’s no party to hurry back to this time.

It’s even better than the first kiss, because finally everything I had to hide is out in the open, and none of it has scared him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your patience with my real life interferences! My cousin is out of the hospital and in rehab now, and his memory and physical range are getting better every day. Hopefully the last of the walls coming down and (finally) some kissing was enough to make the wait worthwhile. <3


	17. Fear

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took longer than expected because I spent _forever_ arguing with myself about which scene came next, but the good news is that means the next chapter is already half written because that's how much it took to decide! XD
> 
>  **Possible trigger warning** : Detailed description of night terrors/panic attacks in first half of chapter.

It’s very late when we finally head back to the royal wing. Nalissa’s hair has fallen from its carefully graceful updo, probably because I had a hard time keeping my hands out of it once I realized how soft it is free of the braids and pins, but she doesn’t seem to mind.

That Highever knight, Ser Prior, definitely does though. As soon as he spies us walking down the hall, he surges forward, red in the face and sputtering objections. Where in the world has she been? Why did she disappear after the ball? And how is he supposed to protect her if he doesn’t know where she ran off to?

Nalissa makes a dry joke about dueling assassins and shoving them off the battlements that makes me chuckle but her bodyguard glare. Then she slips me a smile and a good night before allowing him to usher her inside, assuring her that her room is safe and Ilana is waiting up for her.

Thankfully, the guards I pass on the way to my chambers are well used to me not returning to bed until the wee hours of the night and probably assume I’ve been holed up in my study until now. I remind myself on my way to bed that I probably should check for anything important first thing in the morning, bring any outstanding missives to the breakfast table with me if I have to to make up for today.

It feels like I’ve barely fallen asleep when something heavy slams into my door. I jolt upright and look around, but the door remains closed. Something like scratching comes from the other side, and I’m squinting my confusion into the darkness when I hear a booming bark accompanying it.

“Dante?” I wonder, dragging myself out of bed to open the door. The Mabari barrels into me, nearly knocking me down, then bounds back out into the hallway and whines.

I’m still trying to figure out what game the warhound is playing when I hear it: a scream, faint but terrified. Dante whines again and bolts, and I chase after him. A thousand possibilities run through my mind and I think how stupid it was not to consider that whoever wants to hurt her might have slipped past while the garrison was distracted with the partygoers. I’m just wondering what in the world I’m supposed to do about it since I dashed off without my sword when I see a small group of knights gathered outside her door. They seem to be arguing instead of actually doing anything, and I shove past the first two before they realize I’m even here.

“What in the Maker’s name are you doing?!” I demand when someone stands in my way, and Ser Prior shakes his head, continuing to bar the door.

“The lady’s maid has been summoned. His lordship was very clear. No one but Ilana is to enter.”

“This is not Highever,” objects one of the other knights. “The lady is our charge as well!”

Still Ser Prior stands his ground. “I’ve told you, the room is secure, Lady Cousland is in no danger—”

My half sleeping, half panicked mind catches on at last to what’s happening, and I almost breathe a sigh of relief until she screams again. It’s louder this close, strangled—more pained than it had seemed from a distance. I decide instantly that I can’t listen to it without doing anything until Ilana arrives.

“Let me in,” I order, and the other knights cease their arguments, waiting. Ser Prior, for his part, shifts on his feet and looks distinctly uncomfortable.

“Your Majesty, I—Lady Cousland was very specific—”

“Am I your king or not?”

Ser Prior wavers. “Y-yes, Your Majesty. Of course. I—of course.” Slowly, he moves to the side but as I reach for the door handle, he warns in a low voice, “Please don’t touch her, Your Majesty. She is stronger than she looks and very… confused.”

I nod grimly and step past him. He shuts the door behind me quickly, probably returning to his position blockading anyone else from coming inside.

The fireplace has burned down to embers and that’s the only source of light, so it takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the dimness. When they do, my heart twists in my chest at the sight of her. Nalissa is still in bed, curled onto one side and shaking so violently she might actually be rocking instead. She’s quieter, I realize, not because she’s getting any better but because one hand is clenched in her pillow and pulling it in toward her. It’s a small miracle she hasn’t injured or suffocated herself already.

Beneath her frantic breathing, there are words she’s crying into the pillow. At first, I think she’s pleading, but the closer I get, the better I hear.

“I won’t,” she’s saying harshly. “Kill me and be done with it! Just fucking ki—”

The words are lost in another scream ripping itself from her throat, one arm flailing out to the side as if to strike, but no enemy within reach. She convulses, clawing at her own wrist and digging bloody lines that only make her scream louder. On impulse, I reach for her hand, just to try to pull it away, forgetting for an instant what Ser Prior had just told me.

As soon as my fingertips graze her skin, she recoils violently. She kicks me hard just above the knee, lashes out with a backfist that misses my jaw so closely it brushes the hair on my chin, and slams her own head against the headboard in her rush to get away. “Don’t touch me!” she snarls, and her eyes are open, wild and manic as she backs away farther, falls off the bed, and forces her back into a corner by the wall.

There are tears streaking her face, and she braces her limbs like she expects me to try to drag her out of the corner. And she must, because there’s an edge of hysteria to her voice with the words, “Touch me again and I’ll tear out your throat with my teeth, I swear it!”

I don’t know what to do. The way she’s acting, the tears and the shaking, none of it is the Nalissa I know but it’s scary to see her like this. I don’t want to think about what she’s seeing or reliving, but suddenly I think I understand what she meant about “earning” her scars. This woman fought like a caged lioness even when terrified of what would be done to her, and that none of it worked makes something deep in my chest hurt for her.

“Nalissa,” I try, in as gentle a voice as I can manage. Talking to her softly worked before, but now she turns her face to one side sharply like I struck her. I kneel on the floor in front of her, trying to make myself seem small and not threatening. I don’t know if it matters. She doesn’t seem to be seeing me anyway, but I try.

“Nalissa, no one is going to hurt you,” I say quietly, and she doesn’t look up but she doesn’t lash out again, so I count that as an improvement. “You’re safe here. You’re in the palace, remember? In your room. There’s no one here but you and me.”

She hesitates and I think I might be getting through. Until she shakes her head then rakes her hands up into her hair, hiding her face in her elbows and sobbing. I don’t know if this is progress, if sobbing is better than screaming, but I’m still talking to her when the door opens behind me and Ilana enters quietly.

“Oh, my lady,” she says, and the sorrow in her voice is almost tangible. She approaches slowly, a little closer than I had, and sits down on the floor. “Listen, do you hear that? It’s quiet. It’s _peaceful_. Feel how warm it is. That’s not stone at your back, is it? It’s cedar. You can smell it, if you try.”

And she goes on, talking about where we are and describing it so thoroughly it’s like she’s trying to will it into Nalissa’s mind. Eventually it seems to work and Nalissa lowers her arms slowly, her eyes a little less lost. She runs her hands down the walls next to her, feels the grain of the paneling, hesitates a little at the carpet but then runs her fingers over it carefully. Ilana holds out a hand, almost touching Nalissa’s but not quite.

“Can I help you back to bed, my lady?” she asks gently. It takes a while, but Ilana is patient. Nalissa makes a move toward her hand once, then falters and stops halfway. Then strangely, as Nalissa’s breathing slows, her eyes close and her head nods and the next thing I know, she’s asleep again.

Only then does Ilana look at me, her silvery eyes almost glowing in the dim light. “She won’t remember in the morning. Please don’t tell her.”

I swallow and nod, at a loss for words. I don’t know what I could possibly say to her about this anyway.

“She won’t wake,” Ilana goes on. “Would you help me lift her back into bed, so I don’t have to ask Ser Prior?”

Ilana is right again; Nalissa only makes a faint murmuring sound when I pick her up and doesn’t try to shove me away. I hope that means her dreams have changed to something much nicer. Her fingers clutch for a moment at the neck of my nightshirt when I put her down, but her hand goes slack again almost immediately.

“Did she hurt you, Your Majesty?” Ilana asks at last, as we withdraw to the other side of the room. Her eyes are worried, though I suspect more for her lady’s behalf than mine.

“No,” I say, mostly truthfully. I’ll probably have a huge bruise above my left knee, but that’s not important. “That was incredible, how you calmed her down. I can’t believe the teyrn didn’t want you to stay.”

Ilana fidgets with the fabric at her elbow and tries to explain, “His lordship is… impatient with her. He doesn’t understand why she can’t be as strong about this as she always has been. He doesn’t understand how strong she _is_ to keep fighting when things like this always wait in the shadows of her mind.” She looks back across the room to where Nalissa now sleeps quietly again and whispers, “I was afraid for a long time she would decide it was too much. Sometimes, I still am.”

I swallow hard, unwilling to think about that possibility. I settle for asking, “He lost his wife and son and still doesn’t understand why she can’t just forget?”

“His lordship is a good man, but he thinks comfort is a weakness. He would have none when he was mourning his family, not even my lady’s. He expects her to be the same.” Ilana sighs and then looks at me, more directly than she ever has. “She needs to be reminded where she is, when it happens. It doesn’t always work, but she had already calmed down a little when I came in, so she probably heard you too. Speak gently. Tell her things she should be able to see, hear, smell, feel—it helps her figure out what’s real. Be patient. It’s hard for her.”

“Is there nothing else we can do?” I ask quietly. “No way to keep her from going through this?”

Ilana shakes her head sadly. “Not that I’ve found. The things they did to her left scars you can’t see, too. She’s gotten better. It used to be every night. She refused to sleep when she was especially afraid. But this is the first one since I’ve been here.”

I nod slowly, but don’t know what to say. I wish Nalissa didn’t have to remember it, never mind relive it. But if anyone’s strong enough to keep going anyway, it’s her.

It’s a moment before I realize Ilana is watching me, and when I clear my throat awkwardly, she gives me a faint smile. “My lady fears anyone seeing her in this state, but I think it would make her happy that you wanted to help her instead of hide her away. She has been happier than she has in a long time, these past few days.”

She bows low as she bids me good night, and I hope she doesn’t see the color rising in my face.

* * *

The entire day after the Wintersend ball is a blur. The regent’s wife excitedly tries to engage me in planning a wedding, and I make the mistake of asking why it’s so pressing. Then she makes the even greater mistake of telling me it’s because the wedding is to be on Summerday.

Summerday. The first of Bloomingtide. The same Bloomingtide that is three months away. Three months from yesterday, in fact. In three months, I’ll be married, I’ll be _queen_ , and though I had come to terms with the fact that it’s going to happen, the _suddenness_ of it throws me into a panic.

I don’t know how to be a queen. I don’t even know how to be a wife. Well, apart from the obvious thing, and Maker, that’s the thing a lady isn’t _supposed_ to know about before the wedding.

I’ve nearly worked myself up to the point of actually being tempted to run away when Alistair finds me pacing the library. I’m already breathing a little too fast but when he smiles at me, my heartbeat decides to double too.

“Good evening, Your Majesty,” Ser Prior greets him cheerfully, bounding upright from the couch where he had until recently been complaining about how I could walk circles anywhere but simply had to choose a library.

“To you as well,” Alistair says politely, then after a moment of consideration, dismisses the knight to go find himself dinner. Ser Prior looks like he wants to argue, but thinks better of contradicting the king and does as he’s told. I can hardly believe it.

“Since Fergus seems to have specifically ordered him not to listen to me, do you mind doing that once a day forever?”

Alistair laughs and promises, “Anything you desire.” His voice is soft and soothes the edges of my frayed nerves. It makes it a little easier to breathe. He reaches for my hand and laces his fingers together with mine, tugging me gently toward him. “I did have a selfish reason though, this once. I have a surprise for you.”

I try for my best suspicious look, determined not to let him see my unease. “This isn’t the sort of surprise that involves things jumping out at me, right? Because I’d like to forewarn you, I _am_ armed.”

“I’d be more surprised if you weren’t,” he says with a grin. “But no stabbing necessary. Or I hope not, anyway.”

Alistair leads me down the same corridors we usually follow to get away from everyone else, and I’m glad for it. At least out here, Ser Prior won’t find me upon his return. Alistair opens the door for me like always, and I’m starting to wonder exactly what’s meant to be surprising about any of this when I look down.

He’s set up a blanket on the sparse grass of the little alcove, along with a simple dinner of what appears to be sandwiches and baked potatoes, a bottle of wine, and two glasses. There are even a few guttering candles close to the stone wall, where they’re protected from the wind. The panic that’s been clawing at my chest all day quiets and is replaced with that light, fluttering feeling I’ve begun to associate with being close to Alistair in quiet moments.

“I saw how flustered you were getting with Arlessa Isolde earlier,” he explains. “I thought you might appreciate dinner without her or Eamon for once. And… well,  maybe I also just wanted to spend time with you.”

There’s a twinge of that panic again at the mention of the arlessa and her planning, but it doesn’t last long. Alistair’s shy little half smile is infectious, and I stand on my tiptoes to kiss him softly. “Have I mentioned that you’re sweet? Because I’m not fully convinced I’ve mentioned it enough.”

He chuckles and pulls me down toward his improvised picnic, and for a while we just sit with our shoulders touching, enjoying the food and the sound of the waves and each other’s company. He’s even stashed away a few cookies that were almost definitely acquired in secret from the cook, because I’ve never seen them at the table.

“Alright, I have another confession,” he admits as he pours the wine. “I may also have wanted to bring you here tonight because I still need to give you something. It… seemed a better place to do it? Sort of our place, maybe?”

I smile at his nervousness, even though I still have no idea what he’s talking about. “It’s definitely the place where I finally convinced myself you weren’t being so sweet and funny and thoughtful all as a ruse to get me to let my guard down.”

Alistair raises his eyebrows and puts on his best, most serious expression. “Aha! So my needlessly complicated and self-deprecating master plan finally worked, did it?”

I laugh and nudge his shoulder with mine, and he wraps his arm around my waist and chuckles into my hair. It’s warm and comforting, and the happiest I’ve felt in a long time, I realize suddenly. Perhaps I’ve been overthinking. If being married to Alistair would be anything like this, perhaps I’ve been panicking over nothing.

“So, that thing that I mentioned, that I meant to give to you,” he says at length, and I sit up straight again as he withdraws his arm. For a moment I think he’s fidgeting, until he pulls something small from his pocket and gives me a smile as soft as his eyes. “Not quite as romantic as it’s supposed to be, what with the engagement already being announced and everything. But it wasn’t ready yesterday, and, well, I thought you _might_ prefer not being made a spectacle in front of half the kingdom again so soon.”

“Thank you for that,” I start to say, and then he opens the little box in his hands and I cut off mid-sentence. Inside is a delicate ring of silver set with a blue-green stone and two smaller white ones. It’s lovely, simple enough not to be gaudy, and completely unexpected. Perhaps it shouldn’t be, given the events of yesterday, but stunned as I am, I can only manage to say, “It’s beautiful.”

“You are,” Alistair answers, and the way he smiles as he gently touches my cheek actually makes me feel like I could be. “But I thought, since everything else has kind of been decided for us, at least once somebody should actually ask you if it’s what you want. So!”

He can’t exactly kneel with us both already sitting on the ground, but he does his best attempt at a bow while staying seated, complete with elaborate waving of his arms, and I laugh into my hand at how ridiculous it is. He’s grinning when he straightens, but then it melts into a tender smile that has my insides melting too.

“Marry me?” he asks softly.

And even though I’ve spent most of the day being terrified of the very idea all over again, somehow when he says it— _asks_ it, instead of telling me it’s what’s best for me or what my parents would have wanted—it doesn’t sound so bad. If there’s one person in Thedas I’ve come to believe would never try to use me, it’s Alistair. Even if he doesn’t love me like my father loved my mother, even if it’s an arranged marriage that neither of us really chose, maybe if we make each other happy, that’s enough. And it’s been a while since I thought I could find _happiness_ in anything.

Alistair is always gorgeous—even when I was still looking for excuses to hate him, I couldn’t deny that—but wearing this particular smile, I think there’s nothing he could ask that I wouldn’t do. Not least of all because I know he would never ask for anything I wasn’t _willing_ to give. And that’s the whole point of this question, I think. It’s one last chance to say no if I can’t do this, and strangely enough, that he cares enough to ask is what convinces me I can.

“I will,” I answer, and his smile takes my breath away.

So when he takes my left hand and slips the ring on my finger, even though I’m still a little afraid of what it means, the warmth of his hand over mine is steadying. Then he takes my face in his hands and runs his thumbs along my cheekbones, and watching the candlelight flicker in his eyes, I can’t remember why I was afraid.


	18. A Bit of Advice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Since the last chapter was so late and I'll be out of town tomorrow, have a random Thursday update! (Also because after a couple of chapters of bonding and trust-building... we have a plot to get back to.)

The next few days are long ones. As hard as Eamon tried to keep the peace, there are still angry freeholders and lords desperate for help to rebuild their lands, and all of them are a touch more angry or desperate at having to wait a few extra days for their king’s betrothal. And then if that isn’t exhausting enough, there are still a hundred and one emissaries and ambassadors to meet and make nice with. Very few of them actually have anything nice to say. Some of them are miffed that they weren’t important enough to be at the ball, and a great deal are offended that it wasn’t a daughter of _their_ arling or city-state or nation presented to be the next queen of Ferelden.

A few even have the audacity to insinuate such things in front of Nalissa. I never knew how hard I could grit my teeth until an Orlesian marquis asks _aloud_ if she’s quite ‘level-headed’ enough to be queen. Somehow Nalissa takes it all in stride, though I notice her smiles get much sharper around the dignitaries that run at the mouth.

The only things that keep me sane are that none of these people are invited to dinner and that even though her armor hasn’t been returned to her from the smithy, Nalissa has taken up sparring practice with me again. It’s a different experience now that things have shifted between us, and tonight there’s a knowing sort of smile tugging at her lips as our match ends with a blunted dagger so close to my neck, it bumps on my throat when I swallow.

“You’re getting distracted,” she accuses, and there’s mischief mixed in with the freckles in her eyes.

“I don’t know what you mean,” I insist, but she taps her fingers against her lips thoughtfully in a way that’s very distracting.

“Interesting. So you definitely _didn’t_ notice the neck of my shirt coming open, then?”

I clear my throat and purposefully look anywhere except at her tunic. “I was—I only worried the tie would get caught on your blade.”

Nalissa laughs, a variety that starts low in her throat and leaves her smirking more than smiling. I suddenly wonder if we haven’t been sparring for entirely too long, because I can’t remember being this warm in my life, and I’ve trekked through Ferelden in plate armor in the dead of summer.

“Sure you were,” she says, poking me in the chest with the hilt of one dagger. “Well, your _concern_ lost you the match today, so wash up for dinner. I’ll try to put on something less distracting.”

I think she would probably still look distracting wearing a potato sack, but don’t say that aloud. Still, that laugh has me so distracted that I’ve already opened the door to my room and made it inside before I realize I’m not alone.

“Alistair!” a familiar voice croons, and an elven man with a distinctive face tattoo steps out of the shadows, spreading his arms and grinning in greeting.

I stare for a moment, not sure if I might have had some sort of heat stroke and am now hallucinating. I quickly shut and lock the door, then stare at him some more as I blurt out, “Zevran, how did you get into my room?”

He just laughs and claps me on the shoulder as he approaches. “Come now, my friend! I have missed your battering ram-style tact, to be sure, but even you cannot think me so unskilled as to struggle with an unlocked window.”

“There was that one claw trap in the Temple of Sacred Ashes that nearly took your fingers off,” I remind him, and he waves a hand dismissively.

“Positively Ages ago! Besides, should you not be asking _why_ I took it upon myself to pay you a visit all the way from Antiva City through your abysmally guarded fourth floor window?”

I hesitate, eyeing him with a little suspicion despite the odd sort of friendship we’d forged during the Blight. He _had_ tried to kill Sereda and me once. And he _had_ also made vague jokes about kings being good for the assassination business at my coronation.

“Zev, should I be letting the guards in right now, or…?”

Zevran laughs again, but this time briefly before inviting me to sit. In my own chair in front of my own fireplace in my own room of my own palace, which he had burgled into unannounced. If it were possible to bottle his nerve, the fainthearted could be erased from the face of Thedas overnight.

After a moment of rather dramatic posturing in front of the fire, he fixes me with a serious look. “Alistair, I am here because of a contract.”

“And you thought you’d be polite enough to warn me before trying to kill me this time? I knew I was your favorite.”

He frowns at my snark and I let my forced smile fade. If _Zevran_ is taking this seriously, obviously I should as well. I lean forward with my elbows on my knees and sigh heavily. “Alright then, go on. Who is it and what did I do?”

“Not you, I’m afraid,” he says quietly, then just sits and watches me, waiting for the realization to strike. When it does, it feels like a shield bash to the chest.

“Nalissa,” I breathe, raking my hands over my face. When I lower them, Zevran is nodding slowly.

“There are, of course, plenty of kings that would be perfectly happy with any way out of a marriage, but when I heard the rumors the girl was to be wed to the king of _Ferelden_ … Well, I had a hunch you would not be one of them.”

“Who would pay for this?” I ask through clenched teeth, standing and beginning to pace. “Who did they send?”

Zevran taps his chin thoughtfully. “It is somewhat of a mystery. It’s proven… problematic to trace, and I had little time to spare in the effort if I wished to arrive in time to warn you. I did learn it is not a new contract. The Crows failed to complete it several years ago.”

That stops me in my tracks. “They’ve tried to kill her _before_?”

“And even more mysterious, all other parties involved seem to be dead,” he continues. “The failed assassin, of course, but also the Crows’ contact inside the castle, even the one who originally took out the contract. Everyone _but_ the target, presumably why it was abandoned until recently. It’s all quite odd, considering dead men typically don’t carry a lot of coin on them and that _is_ what the Crows are in the market for, after all.”

I shake my head exasperatedly. “So you have no idea _who_ wants to kill her, just that a Crow somewhere is contracted to try.”

“Oh, I know it’s Rial that took the contract,” Zevran says matter-of-factly. “He’s one of the few that operates in Ferelden willingly. Says he enjoys the _simplicity_.” The assassin shudders. “Well, there’s no accounting for taste, but he is quite crafty and has contacts in the capital.”

“Damn good ones too, if he’s already found a way into the palace,” I mutter, and Zevran frowns in confusion. I explain about the fire in her room, how I was able to dispel it but it was too close for comfort, and he only looks more confused.

“Alistair, Rial is an _assassin_ , not a mage,” he says slowly. “And it has been less than a week since he departed Antiva. I left shortly after and have only arrived this morning, so unless he has a Fereldan mage accomplice…”

Zevran trails off and I hiss something under my breath that would have made the Chantry sisters that raised me blush. It’s _impossible_ there’s more than one person out there trying to hurt Nalissa. The chances of it are so ridiculous I can’t begin to imagine. No one’s even tried to kill _me_ since I became king, and I’m far more annoying than she is. But still there is the mage Talverd she had seemed so afraid of, missing and angry that she lived after refusing whatever it was he asked of her, and I have no better explanation.

“Zev,” I say suddenly, maybe grasping at straws but what do I have to lose? “You can… find out things. Find people. Like a mage that used to work in the city?”

“My friend, I could find an honest priestess in Tevinter. Why do you ask?”

I explain about Talverd, or as much as I can without feeling like I’m saying more than Nalissa would want me to. If anyone could find him, I think, it would be someone with Zevran’s resources, but he only scratches his chin at me thoughtfully as I finish speaking.

“This girl,” he begins after a long pause. “You’re in love with her, aren’t you?”

“Wh— _no_!” I protest reflexively, my face and ears burning. She… makes me happy to be around, that’s all. I hadn’t even considered a word like love yet, and it’s—it’s _insulting_ that he would first, that’s what it is. “That is, I don’t—I’ve only even known her for—”

Zevran interrupts my sputtering with a quiet laugh and hand raised to forestall me. “Fine, fine. Then you _care about her_ , yes?” The way he says it makes me picture air quotes around the phrase, which only makes my face burn hotter. “If so then, Alistair, take my advice.”

He leans forward, fixing me with a serious look again. “Marry her _immediately_. Leave on a honeymoon until this is all sorted out, and tell no one where. This palace might feel safe for you, but it is too large, with too many changeable faces, to ever be secure. Why do you think it is that royalty are such normal targets for the Crows, hmm? Too many of those you trust to protect you value coin more than the life of a stranger, king or no. _Engaged_ to the king or no.”

I want to protest that that’s not true, that the knights and the staff are all carefully vetted, but… Maker’s breath, I don’t even know half of their names and faces well enough to match the two, he isn’t wrong there. And if something like Loghain’s treachery could go unnoticed by the spymasters until it was too late…

“I can’t just up and marry her tomorrow,” I object, and Zevran throws his hands in the air.

“Then do _something_. A holiday, perhaps? Do nobles go on holiday in Ferelden or is it just wet dog smell and tasteless food all the time?”

When I only give him a half-hearted glare and silence, he sighs as he rises from his chair. “Just consider, if you will, that it took me only one afternoon in your fair city to make my way into _the king’s_ private chambers. Rial is no me, of course—who is?—but he will hardly hesitate if presented an opportunity.”

Zevran makes for the window as his escape, but pauses perched on the sill. “I will see what I can find of this mage you mentioned, but my priority, you understand, is Rial. If he finds his opening, it will not be for something so unreliable as a fire.”

My mind is still racing as I arrive to dinner nearly half an hour late. As much as I try to act normal, neither Eamon or Nalissa is buying it, so I ask my uncle to meet me in my study after dinner. Before we leave the table, I catch Nalissa’s hand and ask her to wait for me at the usual place. Maybe Zevran’s gotten inside my head, but I don’t want her going back to her room alone.

* * *

I bring Dante with me to wait for Alistair, though I’m honestly not sure why. He was oddly insistent I go immediately, for someone that decides to keep me waiting for the better part of an hour. I’m starting to wonder if he fell asleep at his desk when he slips quietly through the door. There’s still a crease between his eyebrows and something suspiciously like worry in his eyes.

“Is everything alright?” I ask with a frown of my own.

He shakes his head grimly, and I can only think it isn’t like him to be so serious. My heart shrinks in worry and I reach for Dante, who bumps his wide head into my hand comfortingly. “What’s wrong? Is it Fergus?”

“No, the teyrn is only busy, as last I heard,” Alistair answers, and I let out a breath of relief.

“What is it then? You scared me for a second.”

Alistair fidgets with a small rune of some kind, something I’ve seen him do before when he’s nervous or deep in thought. But he seems like he doesn’t know quite what to say, and I’m about to ask again what’s wrong when he finally closes the distance between us so suddenly Dante startles. Alistair’s hands envelop mine, and I can feel the runestone pressed flat in his palm. A stray wonder crosses my mind: does he think there’s something he needs luck for?

“Nalissa, do you trust me?” he asks, and asks it so seriously that the quip I might have made never makes it to my tongue. Trust is not something I give lightly, not anymore, but it is something he’s earned.

“Of course,” I answer, but the worry lines don’t fade from his face. I start to pull a hand back to try smoothing them away myself, but his grip tightens, as if he doesn’t want to let go. “Alistair, what’s going on? Why do you look…”

One breath before I mislabel it aloud, I realize it isn’t just worry creasing his brows and tightening the muscles in his jaw. There’s a spark of fear in his amber eyes. I haven’t seen him afraid of anything before, and it’s enough to stop me in my tracks.

“I need you to leave the city with me,” he says without preamble, and for a moment, I can only stare at him in bewilderment.

“I don’t understand. _Tell me what’s happening_.”

In response, Alistair closes his eyes, but it does nothing to mask his emotions. He leans his forehead against mine and lets out a long breath before speaking. “A… contact gave me a warning tonight. Someone’s paid the Crows for your life. Maybe the same person that set the fire, I don’t know, but I… You won’t be safe here. We need to go somewhere safe.”

His words settle into my chest like ice, and for the first time since I left Highever, I feel cold. But they’re like ice in another way too, spreading a sudden numbness that’s unexpected but not unwelcome. This is the type of situation I’m prepared for, life and death. I can’t afford to panic and my body knows it.

“I should go,” I reason, and Alistair draws back slowly.

“What do you mean, _you_ should go?”

“I’ll not have anyone else ending up collateral damage because someone wants me dead,” I say matter-of-factly, shaking my head. I pull away from him and cross my arms, staring at nothing in particular as I begin to pace, murmuring to myself. “The Storm Coast is close; if I make it that far, Uncle Iain will spare a ship. But I don’t have my armor, that’s the main problem—perhaps the smithy has something near enough in size…”

I’ve forgotten how close Alistair still is until he speaks. He’s standing stock-still, staring at me like he doesn’t believe what he’s hearing. “You’d just leave, just like that? And the biggest problem would be not having armor that fits?”

“The rest is less so, I think,” I rationalize. “I can find rations, sleep in caves or trees. I’ve done it wounded, I can do it now.”

“So you’d just go. Just… leave me here without a second thought?” When I look at Alistair again, I swear he’s physically shrunk. His shoulders are lower, the hard line of his jaw turned soft, and the look in his eyes makes me hesitate. But I can’t afford to hesitate, I know that.

“How can I stay if there’s a target on my back?” I ask, trying to will him to understand, but he just looks at me like I’m the one that doesn’t get it.

“You wouldn’t,” he says quietly. “But we could go together. I promised to keep you safe.”

“No,” I snap without warning, my heart beating loud in my ears. I’ve heard almost those same words before, and they shatter the numbness with a spike of fear. “No. I’m not doing this again. You’re not dying because of me. _No_.”

“No one’s dying,” Alistair insists. “That’s the point—”

“I’m not betting your life for mine!” I say, only it comes out as more of a shout. There’s an edge of hysteria to my voice and when I hear it, I turn away, covering my face with my hands and trying to find any sliver of composure I might have left. I fail miserably. “I’m sorry,” I say, probably too quietly now, but I’ll take a whisper over a shout. “But I’m not watching anyone else die because of me. _Especially_ not you.”

I’ve lost too many people I love for that. Not that I love Alistair—that’s _definitely_ not it, that’s not even on the table, because love costs more than I can afford to pay. But he’s sweet and kind and charming, and that he can make me smile no matter how I feel is nothing short of a miracle. He’s too _good_ to let anything happen to him for the sake of someone as broken as I am.

A pair of arms wrap around my waist, and at first I stiffen but when he pivots me toward him, I yield. I shouldn’t, I know that. It will only make it harder to do what I must and I cannot risk wavering. Still I let him pull me to his chest, tangle the fingers of one hand in the hair at the back of my neck, rest his chin on top of my head. Leaning against him and feeling his heartbeat, breathing in the scent of wood smoke and parchment and something deeper that’s just _him_ , everything feels okay, even if this moment of safety is an illusion.

I can feel it as Alistair swallows thickly before speaking. “I don’t want you to go.” His voice is quiet, even so close. “Is that what you want?”

I hesitate. I should say yes, because if I say yes, he will let me go. He might be hurt, but he’ll be alive, and that’s more important. It would even have been true just a few weeks ago. Saying it now though, that would be lying, and I don’t want the last thing I say to him to be a lie.

“I want you to be safe,” I settle for saying, but my hands betray me and clench in the back of his shirt. “Other than that, it doesn’t matter what I want.”

“It does,” Alistair whispers, his hand at the back of my head shifting, tracing his thumb along the side of my face. “I’ve had a lot of crazy things try to kill me, you know. Dragons and darkspawn. An archdemon, of course. Werewolves, golems, blood mages, abominations. Undead—hordes of undead, really. Assassins, too. Even the Crows, on more than one occasion. And if the fight is for you, I _will not_ lose.”

He turns his head down and presses his lips into my hair. “I’m going with you,” he says, and his voice is firm. He’s Alistair the king now, and he’s decided. “I’ve already talked to Eamon. He doesn’t like it, but he doesn’t like a lot of things. And I’m not letting anything happen to you if I can stop it.”

“Nor I you,” I answer, and I can feel him smile. But it’s a promise I intend to keep, and he only makes that easier when he tells me we should leave at first light. I won’t be waiting until daybreak, and he won’t be coming with me.

I’m not letting him die for me. I’ve had more than enough people do that for one lifetime, and one more might finally break me.

Especially if it’s Alistair.


	19. Out in the Open

I know the moment Nalissa suddenly stops objecting that she’ll try to leave without me. The frantic edge to her voice when she told me no isn’t something that should have been fixed by pulling her into my arms, and as much as I may play the fool on occasion, I’m not actually stupid enough to think it did. I know her better than that.

The catch is that _knowing_ she’ll try to leave without me isn’t the same as being able to do anything about it. In theory, there’s only one way out of her room, but I wouldn’t put it past her to be both able and willing to scale the side of the palace to escape like Zevran had now that her window isn’t over a cliff face.

My best hope of tracking her, I think, is Dante. If she leaves him behind, he’ll be able to help me find her. And if she doesn’t, well, a mabari definitely can’t climb down from a fourth-story window.

I make my preparations quickly, mindful that she might decide to simply _leave_ , but I don’t think she will. Nalissa is always thinking a dozen steps ahead, and she isn’t the type to do anything she isn’t prepared for. She’ll brainstorm a plan—maybe the same plan she started to put together before I stopped her, maybe not—but she won’t leap without looking. And with any luck, the servants hurrying up and down the corridor to bring me the things I’ve requested will deter her too. She’ll want to wait until she thinks I’m asleep. Or at least, I hope so.

I receive a few strange looks from various knights when I leave my room in armor, but I’m the king now and apparently kings are allowed a few eccentricities because no one comments. Even though I’m wearing my sword on my hip and my shield hooked over the leather pack on my back. Strangely, the weight of it there still feels very familiar. It makes me feel grounded. It makes me feel like Alistair the man again, instead of Alistair who’s doing his best to be the king.

If she doesn’t want to be seen leaving, I think, Nalissa will take the route through the garden like she did the first time she took it upon herself to sneak out of the castle. Was that only a month ago? It seems like so much longer, I think as I settle into a shadowy corner of the garden to wait.

I hope I’m right about… well, everything that I’m guessing about tonight. It’s still possible that she could have bolted immediately, or packed faster than I did, or found a different route out. She has the confidence and clout with the garrison to walk straight past the guards at the palace gates if she _really_ wants to, but she’ll be too afraid they would report to me if she did that, I know it. Or wouldn’t it be a funny story to tell later if she really is just sleeping and waiting for sunrise, and I’m down here skulking through the palace for no reason?

It’s a little terrifying, as I wait quietly in the dark, to realize how much of my plan to stop Nalissa from disappearing is based off how much I think I know about a woman I’ve known such a relatively short period of time. So it’s a relief when, with still more than an hour before dawn, I hear a soft rustle of grass and padding footsteps.

As it turns out, they’re more pawsteps, if that’s even a word. Dante crosses the garden to the fountain and stops right at the edge, turns around, and sits facing the palace to wait. Nalissa isn’t exaggerating when she says how well her hound can follow orders. It would almost be spooky how obediently he waits, if his tongue wasn’t lolling happily from his mouth the entire time.

I never hear Nalissa’s footsteps coming. She just appears out of the shadows—one moment nothing and the next, a lady painted silver in the moonlight stepping into the garden and kneeling beside the mabari. Her hair is braided down her back and she’s wearing a simple dress that’s a bit too short for her with patches on the elbows that doesn’t quite match the thick leather leggings and boots I can just make out underneath. It’s a disguise, I realize, and her real traveling clothes underneath. Whether it’s meant to trick me or a potential assassin, I can’t say.

“Where in the world did you find that dress?” I wonder aloud as I step out into the garden, and she’s pulled her daggers from somewhere in the folds of her skirt and whirled before she even sees me. Dante just cocks his head to one side and whines. _He_ probably saw me the entire time.

Nalissa swears under her breath, then tucks the white steel blades flat against the underside of her forearms and glares at me. “That’s your only question?” she asks, and I nod.

“Obviously I already knew what you were going to try and do, so yes. Just that.”

With a sigh, she admits, “I borrowed it from a servant.”

“Does she know you borrowed it?”

“Not as such. But she’ll find a much nicer one in its place. I doubt she’ll be upset.”

I cross my arms, unable to keep from frowning a little. “Were you going to leave a note, or just vanish and assume I would know you had run away instead of died?”

Nalissa hesitates, then slips her daggers away inside what appear to be pockets she’s cut in the skirt. She doesn’t quite look at me, seeming a little ashamed as she says quietly, “I left a letter for Ilana. She would have understood why I did it. And she would have known how to tell you.”

“Well, you’re not getting rid of me so easily,” I assure her, as pleasantly as I can manage despite the nagging little hurt behind my ribs. I know why she tried to leave without me, and I know it comes from a place of concern, but still it stings in that part of me that keeps insisting, _She’s trying to leave because she doesn’t want you, just like everyone else._

I’m distracted by something desperate in her eyes as she steps toward me. “Alistair, _please_. See reason.”

“I see plenty of reasons,” I say, and begin listing them off to prove my point. “You don’t know eastern Ferelden, you don’t know who’s after you, you’re vulnerable alone—”

“You’re just making _yourself_ vulnerable instead!” she argues.

“I’m not vulnerable,” I say firmly. “I have you.”

Nalissa frowns, her jaw set into a hard line. Her eyes narrow at me as she presses at my sense of duty with the accusation, “You have a kingdom to protect.”

“Eamon and Teagan can handle that for the time being,” I reply. “Really, they’re getting the short end of the bargain. I get to wander the countryside with a beautiful woman while they deal with obnoxious dignitaries and petty quarrels.”

“This isn’t funny, Alistair,” she says quietly, and her whole body is as tense as the fists clenched at her sides. “I—I won’t forgive you if you get hurt on this fool’s errand. You are the _king_. If it comes to it, promise me you will do whatever it takes to come back to your people alive. That if it’s your life or mine, you’ll let me die.”

I look at her, dressed for subterfuge and flustered that she’s failing at it, determination in her eyes and defiance in her words, and I know I have only one answer to that demand: “I won’t make a promise to you that I can’t keep.”

Nalissa crosses her arms and looks away from me, clearly an indication she has nothing else to say. But I notice something in the motion, and reach for her hand. My thumb brushes over her left ring finger, bare of the betrothal token I gave her only a few days before, and that nagging sting turns to a sharp pain.

It must show on my face, because even though I mean to withdraw quickly, Nalissa catches my hand. “I didn’t leave it behind,” she says, a note of urgency to her low voice, and with the other hand pulls a chain from the neck of her dress. There hangs her engagement ring, next to a signet ring bearing the Cousland crest. That it’s there beside the symbol of her family, literally and figuratively near her heart, soothes some of the raw edges I felt at seeing it missing. But only just. “I didn’t want to lose it or risk it being stolen. I made you a promise, Alistair, I would never—”

I interrupt her with a kiss, as much for my reassurance as hers. I hadn’t realized how much it had come to mean to me in such a short time that she wore my ring, but in hindsight, it should have been obvious. After all, _she_ came to mean a lot to me in a short time too.

Nalissa’s sea-green eyes are sad when she pulls away. “There’s nothing I can do to convince you to stay here where you’re safe, is there?”

“Too late for that, I’m afraid,” I answer, trying for a smile, but I think it comes across a little sad too. “But don’t worry. I’m not dying before you can wear that on your finger again.”

She gives my hand a squeeze and says pointedly, “I’ll hold you to that.”

There’s something I want to say in response, though I can’t quite put words to it before she whistles for Dante and helps him over the garden wall. There will be plenty of time for me to figure it out, though. I’ll make sure of that.

* * *

We leave Denerim before the sun rises, and no one tries to put a blade or an arrow through my heart, so I hope that means I’ve slipped whatever noose the Crows were preparing. We don’t follow the Imperial Highway at first, heading west until we hit a village. There, Alistair and Dante wait outside while I stop in the general store for some dried food and to drop rumors I’m headed for Jader.

I don’t know what Alistair was expecting from this trip, because I had honestly half expected it to be a last scenic view of Ferelden before someone sticks a knife between my ribs no matter what precautions I take. But now that he’s with me, I have to think harder, plan better, find a way to outsmart this assassin. Maybe that was the extent of his plan all along.

It’s not quite dusk yet when we drag ourselves to an exhausted stop somewhere several miles to the southwest of Denerim. It’s completely the opposite direction along the Imperial Highway to reach the coast, and that’s why it’s where we’re headed. We’ll follow this path for a couple of days—assuming of course that we make it that long—and put in another appearance at the next village before changing course. With any luck, we can find someone else ready to head west, depart at the same time, and anyone tailing us will follow a false lead until our trail has gone cold.

I’m still working out contingency plans as I lean back against a tree trunk and close my eyes when Alistair interrupts to demand incredulously why I didn’t bring proper supplies. He then proceeds to fish a small pillow from his pack and throw it at me, with an expression that says I might be the most useless runaway in the world.

The pillow is soft and smells like him, but though I insist it isn’t a necessity, he refuses to let me hand it back. So I sleep, Dante and Alistair keeping watch, and I think I’m dreaming of him until I wake with his arm draped over my shoulders where he fell asleep too.

He’s more prepared for a trip than I am in several ways, I note as we continue west. While I’m wearing the closest thing to armor I had available—a thick leather corset with steel boning that should at the very least require a lot of muscle to stab through—he’s come dressed in actual armor. It’s in a very Fereldan style, made of leather and fur bracing over what I suspect to be a chestpiece made of dragonbone splints. There’s steel hidden in there as well, I realize as I bump into one of his shoulder guards and it rings from the strike. It makes me feel a little better that he’s at least well-armored, and deceptively so.

The second night, we camp on the outskirts of a village on the edge of the bannorn. No one here should recognize me, we’re not deep enough in the bannorn for that, but still I worry. Alistair catches me chewing on my thumbnail by our small fire and pulls my hand away to twine his fingers with mine.

“Eamon threatened to have my thumbs removed if I didn’t stop doing that, when I first became king,” he says with a smile. “You probably shouldn’t pick up the habit if you can help it.”

“Too late,” I say sheepishly, holding up the other hand for him to look at. I had carefully grown my nails at court, because that’s the ladylike thing to do and I was supposed to be presentable, but already most are bitten back as far as I can get them without pain.

He chuckles at me and kisses my knuckles. “Ah, that’s too bad. I’ll just win our sparring matches by default if you don’t have thumbs to hold your daggers.”

“You think so?” I ask, raising an eyebrow at him. “Because I’m reasonably certain you’ve only actually beaten me twice yet. And one of those was a little suspect.”

“Suspect!” he objects. “Of the two of us, I think _I’m_ the trustworthy one. _I_ haven’t tried to sneak out of the palace and leave you behind lately.”

That same guilt from earlier hits me again, and I look away into the trees. As much as I told myself I only want to keep him safe and that’s why I needed to go alone, it wasn’t the only reason. I’m afraid of him getting hurt because of me, petrified of it really because I think it might be the thing that could finally break me beyond repair. And that makes it just as selfish of me as it ever was selfless. I know that, I admit it to myself, but maybe I should admit it to him too.

“Hey,” Alistair says gently, squeezing my hand. “Hey, I didn’t mean—”

“I didn’t try to leave without you because I wanted to leave you behind,” I interrupt, picking at a stray thread on my leggings with my free hand. “I was afraid. _Am_ afraid. For you, but also because I… I’ve watched so many people I care about die, Alistair. I still see them sometimes, when I close my eyes.”

I do close them, and there in the dark they’re waiting, just like they always are. “Oren in my brother’s bedroom, so blighted _tiny_ I can't believe anyone could do it. Oriana right there too, where she died trying to shield him. My father bleeding out on the floor of the larder. My mother charging Howe’s men with a mace to buy me time.” I realize my hand on my knee is shaking, and curl it into a fist so it’s less obvious. “And Roderick—he stayed to hold the gates, you know. I had to leave him to die once and then watch him die the second time. I just… if I have to add you to that list, I…”

“Shh,” Alistair whispers, wrapping an arm around my waist and pulling me against him. He kisses my temple, then my cheekbone, then my jaw, and I’m smiling a little despite myself by the time he reaches my lips.

“I’m not dying anytime soon,” he promises, leaning his forehead against mine so I’m looking directly into his eyes. They’re more golden than brown in the firelight, and just as warm as he is. I can see his smile tugging at them as he adds, “The Maker Himself could descend from the sky and tell me I had to choose between hurting you and eternity in whatever section of the Fade smells like stinky socks, and I’d just have to get used to the stench.”

I laugh, but it comes out a little strangled. I had been uncomfortably close to tears before he cut into my thoughts. “And I’m not leaving you,” I assure him. His smile softens and I hope he knows I mean it. The look on his face when he thought I had left his ring behind and run away… I don’t think I have it in me to make him feel like that again. I add just for emphasis, “You know, even with the Maker revealing Himself with threats of a corner of the Fade eternally smelling of brimstone or whatever; all that, too.”

“Oh, brimstone!” he jokes. “That’s a big promise. Brimstone’s even worse than stinky socks.”

“Exactly! Then you understand you’re stuck with me,” I say, trailing my fingers gently against the short hair at the back of his head. “I promise, Alistair. So you really don’t have to hold onto me when you fall asleep, okay? I’m not going to disappear when you close your eyes.”

Alistair narrows his eyes at me, then closes them slowly. Immediately he opens then again, like he’s testing me, and gives me a look of feigned surprise when I don’t actually evaporate. I laugh again and he kisses me gently, and the way he still holds me to him makes me remember that underneath the humor is usually where he hides his vulnerabilities. So I’m not really surprised when he asks a little shyly, “What if I just like holding onto you when I sleep, though?”

I smile and answer, “Then maybe I’ll allow it. But only because I like it too.”

And when he does go to sleep, it is in fact with his fingers still linked with mine, like some kind of lifeline. It makes my stomach do somersaults in a way I thought it had forgotten. And even though I still can’t shake the fear of him getting hurt out here with me, it’s unexpectedly welcome to not be in this alone.


	20. A Second Meeting

I have no idea how she does it, but Nalissa manages to find a man with hair just a shade more blond than mine and significantly fewer freckles who is heading west with his sister toward the ruins of Honnleath, a village in western Ferelden destroyed by the Blight. The woman’s hair is brown instead of black, her eyes blue instead of sea-green, but when Nalissa gives them our traveling cloaks as gifts, they look passably enough like us setting out along the Imperial Highway.

We watch them leave from the treeline, looking for all the world like a pair of villagers out hunting. It makes me feel a little guilty though, that the Crows might end up following these innocent people instead of us. “I hope they’re alright,” I murmur as I worry.

“They’ll be fine,” she assures me. “You’re still a more valuable target than I am, whatever contract the Crows hold. There’s a reason the phrase ‘a king’s ransom’ exists. Our ruse will be discovered before anyone takes a blade to the heart. Just hopefully not until we’re long gone.”

Still, after we turn to the north every cracking twig has my fingers twitching for the pommel of my sword. Occasionally Nalissa draws her daggers and holds the blades flat against the inside of her forearms, staring around suspiciously, but a threat doesn’t make itself known. Somehow, the Imperial Highway had felt like a safety net, a place the Crows were unlikely to stage an attack in clear view of anyone. Cutting through rolling hills and open fields makes me feel incredibly exposed.

When we make camp, it’s in the most hidden location we can find in lieu of a truly defensible one—underneath the crest of a hill in the thickest part of the woods. Which really isn’t saying much because it’s a really small hill and a tiny wooded area, but it’s better than the middle of a field.

Nalissa, as it turns out, is apparently the only person in Thedas that knows less about cooking than I do. Foraging she can handle by virtue of a rather intricate knowledge of which varieties of plants and mushrooms are poisonous, yet another thing I’m left to wonder how she knows so much about. Hunting she’s passable at because apparently she can put a throwing knife through the eye of a hare from fifty paces. But cooking? So much as knowing what to toss into a pot for a stew or how much salt can actually dehydrate a human seems to be completely beyond her.

“Remind me again what you’d be doing without me?” I ask with a grin as I scoop some rabbit stew into a cup and hand it to Nalissa.

“Living off jerky and uncooked potatoes?” she suggests, blowing on the stew to cool it. “I don’t know. I guess I never needed to know before Highever fell, and then Mallol probably could have made a meal out of bark and dust and it still would have been decent…”

“Well, I’m no cook, but you’ll notice the _non-lethal_ levels of salt in this at least,” I joke, and she laughs at me.

“If that’s the way you’re going to be—”

Halfway through standing, she staggers. She grasps my shoulder and still nearly falls until I catch her arm for support. The look in her eyes is stunned, like someone just clubbed her in the back of the head, and it’s only when her hand moves to her side that I see an arrow sticking out of the leather.

“Get down!” I order, lunging for my shield. She ducks just as a second arrow flies over her shoulder, Dante leaps forward with a snarl, and her daggers sing as she unsheaths them.

“Andraste’s blood, man, could you hit the broad side of a barn at ten paces?” demands a voice, and an elven man dressed in black leathers appears over the crest of the hill behind us. “I said through the damned heart!”

To his right, a surly human in a black cloak nocks another arrow while another man dressed in black and carrying a round shield takes a guard position in front of them. Nalissa whistles sharply to Dante, who returns to her side obediently with his hackles raised.

The elf narrows his eyes and draws a pair of tapered blades. “Now we have to do this the hard way,” he says. With an Antivan accent.

“You,” Nalissa snarls, and I resist the urge to look at her. She knows this man?

“Lady Cousland,” he says with a rather pointed smile. “I did say we would meet again.”

“So you did,” she observes. “Should I take that to mean that’s why you’re here? Because I gave a sellsword his death before you could make him beg for it?”

“Merely icing on the cake, I assure you—I am here for coin and the Crows, as always.”

“You’re Rial,” I realize aloud, and the assassin looks for the first time at me. His eyes widen in false surprise.

“Your Majesty! How kind of you to recognize me! And how interesting that you should,” he adds with narrowed eyes before reverting to charm again. “I must admit, I was surprised to see you left the royal palace. Surely this one cannot be so lovely anymore after the time she spent in your Fort Drakon. Simply that fun in bed?”

Rial dodges to the left, laughing, as a knife sails past where he was just standing. “I expect so, then! The feisty ones always are.”

“Oh, I’ll show you _feisty_ ,” Nalissa growls. The archer’s bowstring groans and I sidestep too, forcing her behind my shield.

“Show the Maker, little wildcat,” Rial says with a smile. He waves one dagger and another two assassins appear out of the night, each wielding daggers just like his.

Nalissa strikes first. The assassin on Rial’s left does not dodge as quickly and finds a knife in his chest. The shieldbearer snarls and rushes us, and I meet his charge with my own. The archer’s bowstring twangs twice; one arrow ricochets off my shield, and wherever the second one strikes, I hear no pained shout or whine so I can only hope that’s a good sign.

Dante hurls himself past me with a snarl, his jaws closing around the back of an assassin’s leg, and the man screams. The warrior meets me blade for blade, and I’ve just landed a shield bash with my left to fend off one of the dagger-wielding men trying to flank me when Nalissa sinks both daggers into his back. He gives a shuddering sort of gasp and collapses, and the next moment she’s on the other side of me, her blood-streaked blades parrying Rial’s.

Nalissa lunges, feints past him to stab the assassin Dante is mauling where his neck meets his shoulder, and draws back with her other blade aiming for Rial’s throat. He blocks it with both of his own, but looks just as impressed as I am.

“Perhaps you should have been a Crow,” he tells her as she lands another slash so close, a streak of blood lines his face.

The warrior’s shield crashes against mine and his attempt to knock me off my feet keeps me from being able to hear Nalissa’s answer. But I hear the thud and yelp and the following roar of, “Did you just _kick my dog_?!”

Rial attempts to argue, probably that Dante wants to chew off his face or something similar, but Nalissa won’t let him get out more than a few syllables at a time between the ferocity of her strikes. Finally, I catch the guard of the warrior’s sword on an edge of my shield and wrest it from his hand. Armed with only a shield, he can’t block more than one slash before I follow through with the blade through the gap in heavy plating underneath his arm.

Three down, two to go, I think, feeling much more confident than I had when this started. I try to advance but my left foot refuses to move, and I stumble backward. Too late, I see the arrow pinning my boot into the ground as I fall flat on my back like an idiot.

“Alistair!” There’s a sharp edge to Nalissa’s voice, and she takes the pommel of one of Rial’s daggers to the jaw in her distraction as she tries to make sure I’m alright. I’ve just yanked the arrow out of my boot and tossed it away when I look up to see two more figures cloaked in black appearing behind the archer.

Rial wipes the blood from his face and says over his shoulder, “Porter, Travers—just in time for the fun.”

There’s a gurgling sound as the archer sprouts a dagger in his throat, an arrow flying short into the dirt, and a familiar voice says from under one man’s cloak, “Porter regrets to inform you that he is dead in a ditch already.”

Zevran pulls his blade free and turns on Rial, but the other assassin is ready and the two begin a flurry of strikes so fast I’m not sure how they’re even blocking each other in time. I start to charge toward them, ready to disengage with a shield bash just like I would have during the Blight, but Zevran lands a kick that knocks Rial away, turns to duck a mace from the other assassin, and shouts, “What are you doing? _Run_ , you ridiculous fool!”

Nalissa catches on before I do, seizing my forearm and shaking her head sharply. It’s her face that stops me when I look at her. She’s tight-lipped and even paler than usual. I curse myself for forgetting she was wounded; she’s entirely too good at pretending she isn’t hurt.

She snatches her bag and throws it over her shoulder on her good side, and as she does Rial slips past the distracted Zevran to attack her again. I shout a warning, but it’s unneeded—instead of lashing out with her dagger, she grabs the pot off the fire and Rial dodges a moment too late, screaming as the hot stew splashes over one arm. Nalissa retreats and Dante sinks his teeth into Rial’s other forearm, and the assassin staggers, his shout gaining an edge of rage.

“Good boy,” Nalissa praises, and somehow as the mabari swings his entire body around to dodge a strike from Rial’s second dagger, the hound’s stump tail is actually wagging.

“Go!” Zevran orders, re-engaging Rial and forcing the man to back away with Dante still hanging onto his arm. As we run, Zevran is fighting both remaining assassins at once and Dante is still stubbornly hanging on to Rial’s right arm.

“Your contact in the Crows, I take it?” Nalissa asks.

“That’s him,” I confirm. “You _met_ Rial?”

“In the market, the day I went into the city with Ser Haywood,” she explains, then shoots me an apologetic look. “I had completely forgotten. At the time, I was afraid to tell you after my little excursion the night before.”

She staggers over an uneven patch of ground, bumping into my shoulder with a hiss. But still we keep running, because we have to, even after the sounds of fighting fade into the night behind us.

* * *

I don’t stop pushing forward until I hear a bark. With effort, I pause and pull a throwing knife from my belt just in case he’s being chased but thankfully as Dante bursts into view, he is alone and seems relatively unharmed. There’s blood on his muzzle and front paws, a shallow cut on his shoulder, but he isn’t limping and I breathe a relieved sigh.

Quite unexpectedly, the sudden wash of relief seems to drain all the panic energy from my body and my knees very nearly give way. Alistair catches my elbow and helps me sit, and suddenly the pain in my side is nearly blinding.

I swear and drop the pack off my shoulder, gesturing toward it vaguely. “Can you, ah—can you help me bind this hole in my side, please?”

Alistair nods and opens my pack, and almost immediately starts with the nervous joking. “Maker’s breath, did you steal Venya’s entire stock of poultices and bandages?! I swear, there’s nothing here but wound care and dried food. Is this what you call ‘essentials?’”

“It’s not stealing…  if you leave gold for it,” I argue, not liking how breathy my voice is sounding as I try to get a good grip on the broken arrow. I grind my teeth against a shout as I pull the shaft through, and am not entirely successful. Then I have to lean heavily on the rock I’m sitting on to catch my breath. I’m reasonably certain it’s only the pressure of my corset on the wound keeping it from bleeding out more, and I try to distract myself from that revelation by adding, “And what’s more essential than food and bandages when you’re trying not to die?”

Alistair only answers with a low murmur I can’t find any words in. There’s a muscle in his jaw so tense it looks like it might snap and a deep furrow between his eyebrows. I wait for him to come up with clean bandages before I start working on the laces of my corset. My hands are already shaking, and I have to focus on breathing deeply through my teeth for a moment when it comes loose. Much as I’d suspected, the blood stain on my tunic only starts spreading faster and the pain acquires a burning edge on contact with the air.

I swear a little too loudly to be considered under my breath and Alistair’s eyes are worried when they meet mine. “Let me guess,” he says, too tensely to be humorous, “You’ve had worse?”

Carefully I peel away the bloody fabric from my torso and examine the wounds. If the archer was aiming for my heart, he’s a piss-poor shot; the arrow passed through halfway between my left hip and waist, but far enough to the edge of my body it hasn’t struck anything vital. It is, however, now making my left side feel incredibly weak in a way that’s very suspicious.

“Maybe,” I decide, gesturing to the long, curved scar just above my hip that disappears into the litany of them across my back. “This one was from when Highever was attacked. The blade went pretty deep, and healed pretty terribly without any proper medicine.”

“It doesn’t look so bad,” Alistair says, but as he opens the tin to apply healing poultice, I notice his fingers are shaking. I remember how steady his hands were the first night I met him, when he had picked pieces of glass out of my palm, and know he can tell the difference. This wound could slow us considerably, which is a different matter when the Crows are hunting you than when it’s a bunch of sellswords.

“But it feels wrong,” I admit. “It’s starting to not feel at all.”

Alistair pauses, holding pressure on the wound with a clean bandage. But I can barely feel it now. “What do you mean?” he asks slowly.

I raise my left hand but it’s sluggish, like I’m trying to drag it through a bog. “Numb. Crows’ favorite poison,” I decide, my tongue feeling thicker than it had before too. “On the arrow, probably. Temporary paralysis. Must have only spread when it came out.” I try to grin, but I think the left side of my face might not be responding properly either. “Good thing we ran, yeah?”

I slump toward the left but at least my mind doesn’t slow, or I don’t think it does. I’m still completely able to process the dawning look of horror on Alistair’s face. “Nalissa—hey, come on, focus,” he says, his hands now working madly with the bandages. “This isn’t—isn’t deadly, right?”

“Not meant to be. Crows like playing with their food,” I explain. My left hand isn't wanting to respond properly anymore, so I reach for his forearm with my right to get his attention. “Alistair, do you know herbs?”

He hesitates, which is as good an answer as any. I don’t wait for one, because it’s getting harder to convince my mouth to form words. “Embrium. Red flower. Pretty. Bright. Long shot, early spring. But might help.”

“Embrium,” he repeats, looking around like some might be growing right next to us. “I think I’ve seen it. I think Wynne used it in some kind of potion.”

“Healun,” I slur, my eyelids becoming unforgivingly heavy. “No mortar. Eat.”

He nods and I hope he understands. It’s a little unorthodox, to eat the embrium, but the scent of the bloom alone isn’t potent enough for something like this, and needs must.

“I’d have to go look for one,” he says hesitantly. Even though he’s finished bandaging my abdomen, he’s still holding me upright for now. “I could hide you, but I… will you be okay?”

“Dante,” I point out, and he nods but doesn’t look reassured, especially when I start to lose the battle to keep my eyes open.

“Stay with me, Nalissa,” Alistair’s voice says, quietly and near my left ear. I can hear my hair rustling, and I’m not sure if he’s stroking it or putting me down somewhere. Maybe both?

“I’ll be back quickly,” he promises. Then, presumably to Dante, “Take care of her.”

I listen carefully as his footsteps fade away and despite a low whine from my hound, it makes me feel very alone. I don’t know how long he’s gone, but every snap of a twig and rustle of leaves has my heart beating faster. Maybe that’s good, I think. Maybe it will somehow help work the poison out of my blood quicker.

Unfortunately, with only my ears and Dante to rely on, I can’t but focus on how weak I’m making us in this state. This isn’t exactly a situation I could have foreseen, but it could get us both killed just the same. Or since the Crows had tried to kill me from a distance but not laid a scratch on Alistair, maybe just get me killed and him taken captive.

If possible, that thought only makes my panic worse. Reason tells me that even if they succeeded, the Crows would never do to Alistair the things that were done to me—after all, they would want to ransom him back to Ferelden, not torture him into granting their demands. But reason is far from the forefront of my mind now that the idea has wormed its way into my thoughts.

Terror shows me scenes of Alistair in my place in Fort Drakon, beaten, bloody, fighting not to break, and I want to scream but I can’t even open my eyes to erase the images. As strong as he is, there’s something vulnerable about Alistair that I can’t quite put to words, and I want to protect him for it more than I want to keep breathing.

“Nalissa?” Alistair’s voice asks in concern, and I would have jumped in surprise had I been able. It takes me a moment to realize why I didn’t hear him approaching. My own pounding heartbeat and frenzied breaths are deafening me.

“You’re okay, you’re okay,” he says in what I’m sure are the most soothing tones he can manage. But he hasn’t quite convinced himself yet, so there’s still an edge of fear to his voice that mine latches onto. He’s afraid because we’re still being hunted, maybe someone attacked him, maybe he’s hurt, and it’s all my fault.

“This will work, okay? You’ll feel better, and we’ll keep going until we’re sure Zev got them all,” Alistair is saying, and for a moment I can’t rationalize the words with the fear bubbling in my brain. But his voice is so close he must be speaking into my hair, and I can smell his skin under days of sweat and travel, and the rational voice in my head gains a little ground.

I don’t know how long he sits and talks to me quietly, but after a while, I become aware it’s now my panic immobilizing me, not the Crow poison. Fear still grips my chest in an icy claw, but when I remember how to open my eyes and the first thing I see is Alistair’s face, his eyes closed as he whispers and his forehead resting against mine, the stranglehold loosens.

My entire body still feels heavy, but I manage to lift my right hand to the back of his shoulder, and he startles. But when his eyes fly open and find mine, one of those smiles that makes my chest constrict in an entirely different way lights his face.

“You’re alright!” he says, a little louder than he should, but any will to argue disappears when he kisses my forehead and holds me there. “Thank the Maker. You were gasping, I thought it must have been hard to breathe…”

“’m fine,” I manage to say. My tongue tastes dry and bitter—he must have found the embrium after all.

Alistair actually laughs, either from nerves or the ridiculousness of my reassurance. “You are not fine. But you will be.”

I try to test out my mobility, but the feeling returning to my body seems to have come back to my injury first. The hiss through my teeth is involuntary, but my hand moving to put pressure over my side is not. “Shit,” I say eloquently, and Alistair moves to examine the wound.

“It’s already bled through,” he says quietly, the tension back in his face. “I’ll need to change the bandages before you can move.”

He does, and once I’m sure I can walk without falling, we keep going. Every step feels like another arrow in the side, but I set my jaw and do it anyway. I will not slow us down any more than necessary, no matter how many cries of pain I must swallow.

The Crows will not have Alistair.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obviously, I took some creative liberties with the Crow poison because, well, "stuns for 6 seconds" doesn't translate super well to writing. XP
> 
> I apologize in advance if there's a bit of space between updates after this. I'm not in the best place mentally and emotionally right now, so I'm feeling really insecure and unmotivated and it was a lot of _work_ to get this chapter finished and then work up the nerve to post it. I'm also changing my schedule at my job and I'm not sure yet how much extra stress the morning shift will be, so bear with me. I promise I'm not abandoning you yet. :)


	21. Said and Unsaid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know so many of you went out of your way to tell me not to worry about the time I needed between chapters here, but I'm sorry anyway! I've been waiting _months_ for an update on a couple of favorite fics I follow, so I know it's disappointing to check back and find nothing. I'll try my best not to take so long again. :)

By dawn, we’ve put miles between us and the ambush site but the bannorn unfolds around us, more tall grass and open fields and completely indefensible positions. There are a couple of farmsteads in the distance, and we stop by a small pond for water and to try to decide whether we rest or sneak past.

Surprisingly, Nalissa is the one _not_ in favor of sneaking. It seems she thinks I can’t be stealthy enough in the daytime without a disguise, and we’re fresh out of those. So we’ve just sat down in the reeds by the bank, hoping those will hide us from any immediate notice and wondering how Zevran will inform us if he has in fact taken care of the rest of the assassins, when a low whistle begins in the distance. Nalissa stiffens and I grip my sword in its sheath, but the sound seems to actually be someone whistling a tune.

It sounds vaguely familiar, like something I might have heard as a boy, but that’s hardly soothing. The footsteps that approach are unsteady—possibly those of someone recently mauled by a mabari, I consider, but a glance at Dante shows me he is unconcerned. In fact, he lolls his tongue almost lazily as he cocks his ears toward the sound.

The whistling stops a short distance away, and a man’s voice says, “Go on, get ye a drink, then!” I look to Nalissa in confusion, but she also seems to wonder if the speaker is talking to us. No one moves, and a few moments later, we hear, “What’s it? Them gophers again? Well, go get ’em!”

A moment later, a wet nose pokes through the reeds and a long-nosed dog stares at us quizzically. This is no warhound, but perhaps a hunting hound, I judge based on its agile frame. And it probably belongs to a farmer, not an assassin.

Dante barks a greeting, and the disembodied voice asks, “What’s it, Willow? Did ye find a friend?”

There’s a rustling in the reeds as the farmer approaches. Nalissa looks at me again just before the tall grass parts, sets her lips into a grim line, then raises her hands to shoulder height to indicate she isn’t going for a weapon. Still, there’s a yelp of surprise as a man looks through the reeds and he immediately staggers backwards.

“We _are_ friends,” Nalissa says quickly, in a soothing tone that I can imagine her using in disputes in her father’s teyrnir.

“Bless my hide, but ye scared me!” says the farmer, but there is a laugh to his voice. He steps into the reeds again and I find myself staring at an older man whose hair is in mid-retreat, leaning on a cane. No, definitely not the dangerous type.

“I’m sorry for that,” Nalissa says. “We’re travelers, and simply stopped for water. I also apologize if we’re trespassing, we can be gone in—”

But the farmer’s jaw has dropped, and he’s clearly staring at her without hearing her words. “Lady Cousland?!”

Nalissa stops mid-sentence, her hands lowering slowly. One catches on my shoulder, the other at her waist, where I suspect she still has a throwing knife or two hidden. “Do I know you?” she asks slowly, but the words are scarcely out of her mouth before the farmer sinks into a bow so low his forehead actually touches the dirt.

“I can’t believe—Andraste’s grace, but what could ye be doing out here?! It’s—this is a piss-poor corner of the Bannorn to be _travelin’_ in! There’re _bandits_ , my lady!”

“Please stand,” Nalissa says quietly, and then uses her hand on my shoulder as leverage to help her do the same. I try not to notice that she trembles with the effort. Maybe it wasn’t because of me that she objected to trying to keep going, after all.

“Of course,” the farmer says, rising with only a little more effort than it took her. Still he leans heavily on the cane. “Travelin’ in secret, is it? Then anyone asks, I never saw a thing. I owe ye that much.”

“Thank you,” Nalissa says, giving me yet another quick sideways look as I take my feet as well. Still I’m not completely sure I understand what these glances all mean, but this one seems more relieved than the others.

The old man smiles, revealing several missing teeth. “Ye don’t remember me, I’m sure. But you and those two knights what traveled with ye saved my boy’s life once when he spoke out against Howe. My wife Everly, Andraste bless her, she never stopped singin’ your praises ’til the day she died.”

“One of those dissidents you mentioned protecting after the castle fell?” I guess, and Nalissa nods slowly.

“So it would seem.”

“Seems to me mighty lucky to meet you again, ladyship,” says the old farmer. “Grace of Andraste, maybe, if you’re tryin’ to be secretive. It’s a few miles yet to town, and nobody comes this far out but the young ’uns. Ye can stay until you’re healed up, if ye like.”

Nalissa smiles and begins a polite refusal, but just then the old man spies the dark stain on her tunic. He will not hear a no if the lady is injured, and insists that we rest before we continue our journey. We can clean up and tend our wounds in the shack where his son once lived, the farmer says, and will accept no compromise.

The old man introduces himself as Lowe and hilariously, as we all sit rather awkwardly around his table eating a breakfast of eggs and sausage, he asks if I’m the lady’s bodyguard. “Not that she’s much need of it, from what I’ve seen,” he adds with a laugh. “Watched her down the headsman and two more lads your size afore they could much as draw swords.”

I glance at Nalissa, wondering if that might have reminded her who the old man is, but she gives me a tiny shift of her shoulders that seems to indicate she’s killed a lot of executioners and their guards. It isn’t until Lowe remarks on her injury that she shows any sign of recognition at all.

“You bled in the same place as ye saved my Gideon,” he says quietly, eyeing her side. “I’ve heard of magical wounds that won’t close with time. Is it one of those?”

Nalissa freezes and I remember the poorly healed scar twisting up from her hip toward her back. She had gotten it in Highever, she said. That would mean…

“I do remember,” she whispers, running her thumb down her right forearm. I wonder if there’s a scar there underneath her sleeve too. “Nigh on two years ago now, wasn’t it? We had stayed the night in the inn so Mallol could get some rest and woke to the noise outside. Two men to be hanged at dawn for treason—treason against a backbiting snake like Howe. It was the most infuriating thing I’d heard in days. Roderick tried to say there was nothing I could do, but just then I would have stormed the capital with only a lockpick and a table knife and driven both into that lying bastard’s heart.”

“Shame he weren’t there himself, then,” Lowe says, absolutely no doubt in his tone that she could in fact have done just that.

“Your wife—was she the one that hugged me?” Nalissa asks, and Lowe nods with a fond smile.

“Everly would’ve showered ye in gold if we’d had it to give. I was half afraid you’d attack her, for how sudden she threw herself at ye.”

Nalissa smiles, and breakfast feels a little less awkward after that. And by the time it’s over, our exhaustion is plain and neither of us has it left in us to argue with Lowe’s offer of a bed for the night—or afternoon, at least.

What I had taken as a second farmhouse from a distance is apparently a single-room shack furnished like a large bedroom but in a state of obvious disuse. Lowe shows us inside happily, promises to return with water so we can wash up properly, and only then does Nalissa stop and give me a look of awe.

“That execution he’s talking about, that was the moment we stopped running and started fighting Howe’s occupation,” she says, shaking her head. “I’ve never been able to decide if stopping it was the right thing or the stupidest thing I’ve ever done. I can’t believe _this_ is the farm we stumbled into.”

“The Maker works in mysterious ways and all that?” I offer halfheartedly then catch her hand, squeezing it in what I hope is a reassuring way. “Maybe it didn’t end the way you wanted it to, but you did what you thought was right. You always do.”

“That doesn’t mean I _was_ right,” she says with a sigh, but she squeezes my hand back all the same. “But still… hearing how happy it made that old man, even now after everything else he’s lost, that has to mean something, doesn’t it? I hope I can be half as optimistic when I’m his age. If I live to be his age.”

“You will. I’ll make sure of it.”

Nalissa chuckles and returns, “And I’ll do the same for you.”

I laugh, thinking it a joke at first, before it hits me like a hammer. She doesn’t know. For all the stories I’ve shared of the Blight, I’ve never told her the most important detail about the Joining, the real reason I’m not afraid of risking my life to keep her safe if it’s what’s necessary. After all, it’s only choosing something else worth dying for.

She has no idea I’m going to die anyway, long before I’m a wizened old man like Lowe. And when she gives me that smile, I find that I don’t have the words to tell her.

* * *

The best part of this whole misadventure is that Lowe’s shack has a bathtub. Because contrary to the jokes Oriana used to make about how ladylike I _wasn’t_ , I’m not a savage. There’s no privacy screen but I’m not willing to risk anyone seeing Alistair outside, so I direct him to sit with his back toward me and entertain Dante while I bathe.

I do the same when it’s his turn, though by the time I’ve redressed my wound and then myself, he’s stripped the plates and bracing from his arms. And both his forearms and biceps, I note with a suddenly acute interest, are still corded with muscle under freckled skin, even after a year spent as king and off the battlefield. Fortunately I catch myself staring before he can, but Maker’s breath, my face is actually burning as I turn away.

 _Un_ fortunately, the shirt he wears to bed is thin and clings to his shoulders in such a way I can tell it isn’t just his arms that are nicely fit, which is momentarily distracting again. It has my mind’s eye pondering curiously whether there are freckles across his shoulders too before I realize what I’m thinking.

Alistair has continued sleeping with an arm or a hand touching me, probably because he’s still afraid I’ll leave him behind if given a chance. But it still seems a little… improper to share a bed with him, especially with the way my heart beats faster to see him dressed so lightly. If the way he hesitates at the edge of the bed is any indication, I think his mind might be turning in a similar direction.

“There’s, ah—only one bed,” he observes unnecessarily, and there’s something shy in the way his eyes flicker toward mine. “You should sleep, of course. Being injured and… and whatnot.”

I raise an eyebrow at him. “While you do what? Keep watch to make sure there are no Crows disguised as neatly carved furniture?”

“Fair point. I… could sleep on the floor, though. So as not to, you know, make anything… uncomfortable.”

“I’m fairly certain the floor would be uncomfortable,” I point out, and Alistair gains a sudden interest in the ceiling, his ears turning red.

“Aha, you’re probably right there! But I, ah, well, meant more not to make _you_ uncomfortable, really.”

It’s my turn to hesitate, picking at a stray thread on my sleeve as I do. “You’ve slept beside me every night since we left Denerim,” I reason, but my logic does nothing to settle my nerves, so I doubt it does his either.

“Well, on the _ground_. That’s just what you do, traveling. But sharing a bed is—I mean, not like _that_ , of—of course!” Alistair interrupts himself, his entire face now scarlet.

I laugh softly, shaking my head. “Don’t worry, that’s somewhat of a given. I think we would both generally prefer I not bleed to death for an hour of fun.”

Somehow he manages to look mortified for a short moment, then runs a hand over his face like he thinks he can wipe it away. “I—I didn’t mean to imply—That is, even if you weren’t hurt, I wouldn’t try to…”

His voice trails off and I pause too, noting the discomfort still in his eyes, then look away quickly. Of course he wouldn’t, even quite apart from my wound. It’s been so long since I’ve felt… any kind of attraction, really, but especially the physical kind, I had almost forgotten how much I’ve changed in that time. There’s nothing appealing about the marks etched and burned into my skin, and by now, he surely has an idea just how many I have. This is all a business arrangement, first and foremost, something we’ve only tried to make the best of. It’s foolish of me to have forgotten. Just because my face is still pretty enough for him to kiss me hardly means he _wants_ the parts of me that aren’t.

“Of course not,” I say as casually as I can manage, conscious that it has taken me entirely too long to find words. “Nothing to be awkward about then, I’m sure you—”

A pair of large, freckled hands catch mine and I startle. I hadn’t noticed him coming around the bed. “Nalissa, that is _not_ what I meant,” Alistair says gently, smoothing his thumbs over the back of my hands. I must have moved without thinking, because my fingers are in the middle of gathering the neck of my tunic and pulling it closer. He must have guessed the direction of my thoughts from the attempt to hide the scars.

When I make no more answer than an attempt to swallow back the sudden lump in my throat and a continued refusal to look at him, Alistair sighs softly and moves one hand to the side of my face. I resist the temptation to lean into his palm; I need no one’s pity, least of all his. But he manages to angle my chin until I have little choice but to meet his eyes, and when I do, they’re startlingly dark in the dim light.

“Just… listen to me, okay?” he says quietly. His voice is the low, tentative one he used that morning in the garden, when he gave me the rose. It tells me he doesn’t quite know what to say, but he very much means whatever he’s saying anyway. “Whatever… _awkwardness_ there is, that’s because of me, not you. You—you’re more than I ever could have dreamed you’d be. Fierce and brilliant and beautiful. Perfect, just as you are. But I…”

Alistair hesitates, his hands slipping away to fidget in front of him as he continues, “I’m—I’m not exactly… _experienced_ in these matters. That is, I… haven’t quite…”

Somewhere between the shade of scarlet his face has turned and his devolving into mumbles, it abruptly clicks into place. Alistair spent his formative years in a _monastery_. With that in mind, all the little moments of doubt my insecurities have led me to assume were for my sake are cast in a different light. He hasn’t been afraid of pushing _my_ boundaries; he’s been afraid of pushing _his own_.

“Alistair,” I interrupt, and he stills immediately to look at me, as if he’s physically petrified of what I might say. “When you say ‘not experienced,’ you mean… with anything?”

He clears his throat and shifts his weight from side to side before answering, “I’m quite experienced with hunting darkspawn, archdemons, the occasional bandits... “ I arch an eyebrow at him and he coughs again. “But other—other things, not so much.”

“So you’ve never… shared a bed with a woman, as you put it.”

“I, ah… I’ve thought about it, of course, but no.”

A suspicion tugs at the back of my mind and I ask quietly, “How many other women had you kissed, before me?”

“None,” Alistair admits and then falters, his posture shifting inward until he seems to go on the defensive. “I was raised not to take those things lightly. To be a gentleman. I don’t think that’s a bad thing, to… to wait.”

“It isn’t,” I agree and he pauses again, a little less guarded this time. “I’m… surprised, that’s all. It’s hard to believe no one else has seen how incredible you are, but there’s nothing wrong with wanting it to mean something. I just can’t believe you ever agreed to an arranged match.”

He shifts from foot to foot, still looking uneasy in his own skin. “Eamon was… insistent. He’s a difficult man to say no to.”

I feel my mouth twisting downward before I can stop it. Very carefully, I try to rearrange my expression into something gentler, the easier to soothe my words. “Alistair, you’re the king of Ferelden. You _are_ allowed to say no, even to the regent, no matter what he may think. And if he tries to hold it over you when we finally get out of this mess and back to Denerim, I _promise_ you he will regret it.”

Alistair manages a weak laugh before saying, “Arl Bryland really wasn’t exaggerating about you being more dangerous than a dragon if you’re upset, was he?”

“I believe he said an archdemon, actually.”

“Right. Remind me not to get on your bad side.”

I chuckle and kiss his chin, mainly because I’m not sure I have the energy left to tiptoe and reach his lips. “Then sleep on the bed. _That_ doesn’t have to mean anything, all right?”

He nods and when we finally go to sleep, it’s on opposite sides of the bed with Dante between us but one of Alistair’s hands tangled in my hair like a security blanket. I wake in a thin darkness long past the afternoon we had meant to leave, facing him with one of his arms draped over my waist and one of my hands next to his face. Had I reached for him in my sleep, I wonder? If so, what had I been dreaming?

A low growl breaks the momentary peace and I bolt upright, regretting the sudden motion instantly when pain lances up my left side. But the dagger I’d hidden under my pillow is ready in my hand as I search through the shadows. Dante isn’t in bed anymore; he’s standing with his hackles raised, facing the door. I grind my teeth against the soreness that’s set into my wound with rest and position myself between the entrance and Alistair, reaching back blindly to shake him awake.

“Mm?” he mutters, and I just shake my head, still without taking my eyes off the door. After that he’s alert quickly, rolling out of bed and onto his feet with a thud. I mentally curse the grace of warriors as I slip silently off the bed on my side. Anyone with ears will know he’s awake now.

I hold my breath and in the silence, I can hear the faint clicking of a lockpick scratching across tumblers.


	22. Up in Smoke

I draw my sword as quietly as I’m able, gesturing with the other hand for Nalissa to move behind the door. She frowns and shakes her head at first, until I mime stabbing someone in the back with a dagger and she realizes I don’t mean for her to just hide. She doesn’t move as gracefully as usual, but still doesn’t make a sound stepping across the old floorboards.

The door swings in slowly, a tiny ray of light spilling through. Until it glints off my sword, and then the door crashes open all at once. I’m momentarily blinded by a light from outside the door, and then by a sudden explosion of some white smoke or powder that makes my lungs burn and my eyes water. I cough and hold my guard steady anyway, waiting for the attack, and when I see the dark outline in the smoke, I swing.

A ringing clang answers as someone parries my blade with a shorter one and for a brief moment of panic, I wonder if I just attacked Nalissa. But the figure in the cloud before me becomes clearer as it steps closer and I can see my opponent is broader than her, their posture offensive. I recognize the stance and the hitch in the shoulders as they move, and I twist my grip to parry the second blade as it slashes toward me. I’ve fought enough men wielding daggers to identify the weapon and intent from the silhouette, but I’m painfully aware I won’t be able to fight blind forever.

Dante comes to my rescue with a snarl, and if the way the figure collapses to one side as he screams is any indicator, I think there’s a very good chance the mabari’s jaws severed a tendon. I don’t stop to check, of course, just follow through with my sword to make doubly sure he doesn’t rise.

In the sudden silence, I hear another ring of steel on steel and my stomach lurches. Nalissa is fighting blindly somewhere too. I turn my head toward the sound, trying to decide if it would be more helpful or dangerous to try to assist, when a flash of purple-white light dazzles my eyes. Whatever it is has force behind it, sending me staggering back into the dresser. It’s only years of practice that let me keep my grip on the hilt of my sword.

Somewhere to my left, there’s a solid thud and Dante yelps. Somewhere to my right, Nalissa roars in either anger or pain. I grind my teeth and shove myself forward, away from the solid wardrobe and back into the cloud of smoke, and then suddenly everything freezes.

Nalissa hisses sharply in what’s definitely pain this time and my heart pounds frantically in my ears. Everything isn’t frozen, I realize; I am, every muscle in my body seized beyond my control like a spectral hand has me in its grip. Only it isn’t a hand. It’s some kind of lightning magic, sparking purple-white off my skin and snapping in front of my eyes. It’s so bright I don’t notice the caster until they’re waving a knife an inch from my nose and then pressing it under my chin.

The mage is wearing a black mask covering their entire face except eyes that are nearly as dark. For a moment as the short blade presses against my skin, I think the sharpness in those eyes will be the last thing I ever see. Then there’s a sputtering gasp from my right, the thud of a body hitting the floor, and I tense hopelessly against the spell but still it holds me tight. I can only pray it wasn’t Nalissa that made that sound, because I know whoever it was won’t be getting back up.

“Come now, little Cousland,” sings a taunting voice, and I realize with a start that this mage is a woman. And somehow, despite a lilting accent that I think might be Orlesian, the voice strikes some kind of vaguely familiar chord. “Put down your blades and I won’t have to use mine.”

“I could say the same,” Nalissa says coldly. Her voice comes from somewhere behind me and the mage repositions herself quickly, trying to keep me between them like a shield. But her eyes are narrow and flickering from right to left, and I realize. The lightning spell is making me night blind, keeping me from making out anything farther than a few inches from me, but standing so close is doing the same thing to her. And Nalissa might as well be a shadow herself if she wants to be—if she can get behind this woman with her daggers…

“I’ll kill him,” the mage hisses, her eyes chasing a movement to one direction and then snapping toward a sound in another. I can’t decide if it’s worse not to be able to move or to see what’s happening. The mage shifts again, dragging the knife along my throat as she moves to face where she thinks Nalissa is and demanding as she goes, “Are you really going to make me commit regicide for you?”

There’s no answer, no sound at all, and my heart is beating so fast I think it might explode. I’m not afraid to die, exactly—I’ve had some time to come to terms with the idea, after all—though this isn’t how I want to do it. But I’m terrified Nalissa might actually surrender if she believes it would save me.

“Trying to call my bluff?” the assassin wonders, then abruptly stops just beside me. She’s close enough I can actually feel her shrug. “Very well, then. Such a waste.”

The next moment seems to last forever. The mage’s grip tightens on the knife, and it presses hard into the soft space below my jaw. Then she slashes suddenly, but shallow—it’s only a small sting across my throat, and I think for a moment she has no idea how to use a blade until it digs into the meat of my shoulder, so hard and unexpectedly that even with the lightning spell holding me in place, a cry of pain slips past my clenched teeth.

It’s a trick, I realize too late. The mage dodges around me, carefully keeping her hand holding the knife in contact with my shoulder not to break the spell. I can’t look to see exactly what happens next, but I can see her staff swing out in an arc, hear a thunk as it hits something solid, and then the sound of something sliding to a halt on the floor. I strain to see past the arc of magic and just make out a figure crumpled on the hardwood, clutching at a wounded side.

I can almost _hear_ the triumphant smirk behind the mage’s mask. “That’s more like it. You know, you’re much more cooperative than Rial’s wounds led me to believe.”

I swear internally, since I can’t seem to actually make my lips move to form the words. Maybe it’s just another bluff. Or maybe Rial simply escaped, and Zevran is still pursuing. If he got himself killed trying to help me, I’ll never forgive him.

Nalissa, at least, doesn’t seem willing to give up yet. There’s still a dagger glinting in one of her hands, and as she makes to right herself, the mage sweeps with her staff again and yanks the knife out of my shoulder to trail the flat side of the blade along my jaw.

“Ah-ah-ah,” she warns, and I can do nothing but watch as Nalissa freezes in place. “Careful, now. There are still plenty of places you don’t want a knife ending up. He doesn’t need both eyes to ransom back to Ferelden; he just won’t look as pretty sitting on the throne.”

The threat should make me considerably more worried considering she’s already proven herself willing to stab me, but the fear that floods my veins is for the way Nalissa carefully doesn’t move, even when she growls back a threat of her own.

“Let him go and I won’t feed you your entrails.”

“Once his kingdom has paid for him back, gladly,” the mage says in a poor imitation of generosity. “You, though—sadly, no one wants you alive that long. So drop the weapon before your people end up with a much less palatable king.”

Nalissa hesitates until the mage’s grip on her knife tightens again, and then Nalissa’s hand opens and her white steel dagger falls with a clatter onto the floor. I throw all of my will into trying to make my body respond, straining as hard as I can to just make my arms move, but it’s useless. I’m left just trying desperately to communicate with my eyes not to do it, but that fails too as Nalissa knocks the dagger away. I can hear the hilt striking the bedpost behind me, far out of reach. She’s unarmed, wounded, facing down a mage, and still I _can’t make myself move_.

“On your knees,” the mage orders and Nalissa moves slowly, still clutching her left side. Her knees hit the floor hard as she struggles up onto them, but the set of her jaw remains defiant, the gleam in her eyes an unspoken threat. My breath comes much too fast now, and I think I’m actually shaking with the effort to regain control.

“Still think you’re better than me, I see,” the mage snaps, switching to holding her staff against me so she can move toward Nalissa with the knife. “I should’ve known you wouldn’t beg. Don’t worry, I’ll still tell everyone you did.”

Then Nalissa does the strangest thing. Her lips curl up at the edges ever so faintly, a smirk that says ‘I win’ as plain as words. And then she whistles.

For a moment, nothing happens. The mage advances, the orb of her staff against my chest still freezing me in place, and she draws back the blade for one final slash that seems to take forever. Then something heavy barrels past me, crashing into the mage’s back.

Several things happen at the same time. The mage falls, and as her staff breaks contact, her lightning magic snaps out of existence. I stumble, the effort I was putting into moving suddenly throwing me off balance. I reach out to steady myself, forgetting for a moment the injured arm, and crumple against the dresser with my legs like jelly, still twitching from the electricity. And Dante barks triumphantly as the mage screams, his weight his first weapon and his teeth the second as he rips into the arm holding the knife.

Nalissa dives past me, probably after her discarded dagger, as I struggle to stand properly. Even once I manage to stay upright and heft my sword left-handed at the same time, it’s impossible to get a clean strike against the mage while she’s locked in Dante’s jaws.

Another whistle rings from behind me, shorter and lower in pitch this time, and Dante leaps away from the mage. I attack quickly, as soon as he’s clear, but the mage rolls out of the way and I only succeed in stabbing the edge of her shirt. Nalissa’s dagger goes sailing point-first into the floor where the mage was just a moment before and finds its mark in the woman’s hand instead of her heart. She _screeches_ , yanks it out of flesh and hardwood, and sends it flying back at Nalissa but misses by several inches.

“What in Andraste’s name—”

Like so many guilty children, Nalissa and the mage and I all freeze. Lowe is silhouetted in the doorframe, leaning on his cane with his hunting hound at his heels. Whatever momentary stun we had all shared wears off at the same time—Nalissa lunges, unarmed, at the mage; the mage hurtles toward the old man in the doorway, favoring her left arm and right knee; and I shout at him to move but barely get the word out in time.

Lowe takes the mage’s tackle straight on. At first I think he’s only fallen backwards, but the old man’s yelp is more than surprise. When the mage darts away, I can see the farmer’s coat is on fire. Nalissa shouts at Dante to keep chasing but changes her own course immediately to come to the old man’s rescue.

By the time Lowe’s coat has stopped smoldering, Dante has returned with a strip of black cloth in his jaws, but nothing else. Nalissa gives it a disappointed look, but reaches to give Dante a reassuring pat anyway. I suppose she also figures there wouldn’t have been much else he could do against a mage.

“Are you alright?” Nalissa asks, helping Lowe to his feet as I retrieve his cane. The old man still looks a little stunned, but manages a shaky laugh.

“I see now why ye were traveling in secret,” he says, and though he refuses to accept our apologies, he doesn’t argue this time when Nalissa insists we must move on. “Aye, I’m afraid I’d be little help again’ somebody like that. But let me at least get ye some provisions. I don’t reckon your fire-throwing friend will be back right away.”

Once he’s reassured himself his legs still work, the old man hobbles off toward his house and I can see Nalissa’s shoulders drop as she watches him go.

* * *

I startle when someone touches my shoulder, the heightened nerves from the fight still keeping me very much on edge. But Alistair’s hand is gentle and so is his voice as he asks if I’m okay. I tell him I am, but he’s frowning at me when I look up.

With a start, I remember his wounded shoulder and reach for it, but he shakes his head and holds me at arm’s length. “Nalissa, why in the Maker’s name did you stop like that? She could have killed you. _Look_ at you.”

I give him a confused look, and he touches a hand to my face and draws it back bloody. I blink, touch my own hand to the left side of my face like I think there will be a different outcome, and stare at the dark stain. I do a mental inventory and realize my left eyebrow does sting more than it should, but it doesn’t seem bad enough to worry about.

“I’m fine,” I decide, but he shakes his head again and heaves a sigh at me. It seems that I might finally have found the border of his patience.

“You’re _not fine_ ,” he objects, and there’s an edge of something like fear to his voice. “You were already hurt before any of this started, and then you—you sat there on your knees and let her come at you with a knife! She could have killed you!”

“And she could have killed you, or worse, if I didn’t,” I say quietly, looking from the shallow cut on his throat to the blood seeping through his fingers from the wound on his shoulder. “She very nearly did. I just had to buy time until Dante woke up, that’s all.”

“And what if he hadn’t?” Alistair challenges, and I hesitate. Not because I don’t know; of course I do, I had already thought of that, but he won’t like the answer. I would have charged her myself, probably given her the target she needed with that knife at close range, but it would have knocked her away from Alistair and given him a chance to do whatever templar anti-magic he knows to take her down. I attempt to evade the question by trying to check his wound, but he catches my hand with his free one.

“You promised not to leave me, remember?” Alistair says, his voice suddenly very soft. “Dying would be leaving me, wouldn’t it?”

“You’re the one that promised not to die,” I remind him. “Not long after saying you wouldn’t make promises you couldn’t keep, in fact. So let’s take care of that bleeding before you break your word.”

His brown eyes still look at me sadly, but he nods. I have to search for my bag for a moment before finding it’s been knocked halfway underneath the wardrobe at some point during the skirmish. I’ve just retrieved a tin of poultice and some dressing and bandages when Alistair sits on the bed beside where I’m rummaging.

I look up and forget to breathe for a second. He’s removed his nightshirt and is using it as a compress on his shoulder wound, which thankfully doesn’t seem to be bleeding through yet. It also affords me the chance to verify that there are in fact freckles scattered thickly over his broad shoulders, and this time, he catches me staring.

“It’s really not as bad as it looks,” he says sheepishly, and I realize he assumes I’m staring at the wound. Which is where my attention _should_ be, I remind myself as I gesture toward the bundled cloth he’s pressing over it.

“Let me see,” I instruct him, and I realize belatedly that I sound much stiffer than usual. I can feel myself flinch when he reveals the stab wound, thankfully angled to one side from the mage’s slash and not as deep as it could have been, but still a pain he shouldn’t have had to bear if not for me.

I try to keep my hands as gentle as possible as I clean and wrap it, but they’re not quite as steady as usual. Hoping to keep him from noticing the way they tremble, I ramble much more than I normally do—about whether I’m wrapping it correctly, whether it should have been stitched, whether it still hurts, how he can’t wear armor over it—until he finally interrupts me with a hand over mine again.

“ _I_ really am fine,” he reassures me. “ _I_ didn’t get pierced all the way through and poisoned to boot. Well, this time.”

He grins and gestures toward his chest, and I very carefully let my gaze slide downward. When I do, I frown at the broad white scar on the right side of his ribcage. Upon further inspection, yes, there is in fact a matching one on his back.

“A sword?” I wonder aloud, looking at him with more concern than is probably due a scar of this age. Old or not, it frightens me to know that someone actually ran him through. “That should have pierced your lung—how did you not bleed to death?”

“It did, and I would have if it weren’t for Wynne’s healing spells,” he says, shrugging with his good shoulder. “I actually got it from a dead Warden-Commander, if you can believe it. Or, well, the demon that was possessing her, I suppose.”

I shake my head, half in wonder and half in disbelief. “You… really do have some fantastical stories.”

Alistair’s grip on my hand tightens. “Think what a great story this will make someday. As long as you stay with me, so we can tell it together.”

Maybe it’s the heady mix of worry and closeness and lingering battle high, but as he looks at me so intently with those soft brown eyes, I very much want to give him the promise he wants to hear. Still, I bite my tongue before it can betray me. I won’t promise him we’ll both live through this, knowing there’s a chance I could break it. I won’t do to him what Roderick did to me.

“I won’t promise I wouldn’t trade my life for yours if it came to it, Alistair,” I tell him quietly. “That would be a lie, and we both know it.” His gaze falls, and I squeeze his hand in return to convince him to look at me again. When he doesn’t, I reach up and trace my fingers through the hair at the back of his head.

“That’s not what I want,” I whisper like it’s a secret. And maybe it is—maybe I haven’t said it aloud for fear of that last strand of hope being pulled away from me. “I want to find a way out of this and back to Denerim with you. And I _will_ promise you I’ll do whatever I can, whatever it takes, to make that happen.”

For a moment, Alistair looks at me like he doesn’t believe what I’ve just said. Then he gives me that smile, the one that starts small and turns so bright I think it might be the most stunningly handsome thing in the world. He tries to kiss me next, but when he moves to pull me in by the waist, the pressure on the arrow wound suddenly feels like I’ve been shot again. In my surprise, I don’t have time to stifle the cry of pain that slips past my lips.

Alistair’s smile vanishes, replaced with a furrowed brow and concern in his eyes. “I didn’t mean to—I forgot, I’m so sorry. It was stupid of me. Here, let me see.”

“It’s not your fault,” I say quickly, but he insists on checking my side again before we leave. When the bandages come off, the worry on his face only deepens.

“When the mage tripped you with her staff, you landed on this side, didn’t you?” he asks and I sigh quietly.

“No. The one whose throat I cut got in a pretty hard strike before I killed him. How bad is it?”

“It’s bleeding again, and I think it might have torn a little wider. Hopefully it’s just red from the impact and not getting inflamed.” Alistair shakes his head and looks up at me as he starts pressing new dressings over the wounds. “Rial must really be alive, then.”

I nod, keeping my jaw tight so I don’t flinch. “And he told them where I was hurt? Yeah, I thought the same.”

“She spoke like she knew you,” Alistair says slowly. “Any other meetings in the marketplace you’ve forgotten to tell me about?”

I shake my head. “I have no idea who she is. I’m sorry. We should have known it wouldn’t be so easy.”

Alistair pauses, and this time is careful to lean toward me instead of the other way around as he presses his lips to mine. “That’s okay. The best things never are.”


	23. Fever Dreams

Nalissa has had a fever for the last day and a half. She thinks I haven’t noticed, but it would be hard not to; I’m still changing her bandages twice a day, after all. The entry wound is starting to close, but its twin toward the front of her abdomen is almost hot to the touch, and it’s spreading streaks of red no matter how well I clean it or how much poultice I apply. She’s getting weaker instead of stronger but trying to pretend she isn’t, and I don’t know what to do.

Thankfully, we’ve encountered no more assassins since the ones that attacked us in Lowe’s cabin. Hopefully Zevran has picked them off by now and is trying to catch up to tell us so, but more likely Rial and his mage accomplice are licking their wounds just as we are. Hopefully, they will think better of attacking us without numbers, because I’m honestly not sure Nalissa would be any use in a fight as she is now, and that thought is terrifying.

The best I’ve managed to do so far is talking her into adjusting our course east, back toward the Imperial Highway. She thinks it’s a good idea to zig-zag, so to speak, and make our destination harder to guess. I just hope we’ll be nearer to a city if her fever doesn’t break.

Four nights out from the first ambush, Dante is refusing to leave his mistress’s side, and I’m reasonably convinced that’s a _bad sign_. She’s barely eating now, even the fresh food Lowe sent with us, and complaining that she isn’t hungry when I try to talk her into trying. I think she’s only still drinking water because it cools her down.

“You don’t know how to make anything for pain?” I fret as she struggles to find a comfortable position to try for sleep.

“I know they say the healer’s hands are the bloodiest, but I’m actually not one,” Nalissa says with a weak attempt at a smile.

“You knew how to counter the poison though,” I reason, and she shakes her head at me.

“I know poisons and venoms, so I know antidotes and antivenoms,” she explains. “But not healing.”

“Yet another mysterious life skill one apparently picks up being a noble?”

She chuckles softly. “If one’s brother’s wife is Antivan, I suppose. Oriana taught me when I was younger, when someone nearly killed one of the maids trying to poison me. To fight fire with fire, or some such.”

That gains my interest quickly. “Someone tried to poison you? When?”

Nalissa shrugs. “It’s been years. I guess I was sixteen or so? Maybe seventeen? It was probably the Crows that time too, actually. A patrol I was leading was mysteriously attacked by some very well-armed bandits not long after, and then Roderick killed a man with Crow daggers trying to sneak into my room, and after that it all stopped.”

I turn all that over in my mind, wondering why in the world she sounds so matter-of-fact about it. Wouldn’t that have been frightening, especially to a teenager? Is it really so common to have attempts on your life just for being the daughter of a noble? When I ask, Nalissa yawns before answering.

“Honestly, I just assumed I had offended someone in Orlais. We had just been to a ball honoring a… duchess, I think? And I was much less adept at holding my tongue when I was younger.”

“The horror,” I quip, and she smiles but doesn’t laugh. I watch her for a moment, trying to talk myself out of some of my worry, but it doesn’t work. There’s a sheen of sweat on her brow even though she’s still, a sluggishness to her movements that reminds me of the Crow poison. I’ve seen enough wounds become infected to see the signs. Tomorrow, I think, I’ll bring up the idea of stopping in Amaranthine to see a real healer.

But on the fifth morning, she doesn’t wake. Her forehead is so hot it nearly burns to the touch, her hair matted with sweat that refuses to dry, and when I check her wounds, the larger one is seeping something pale green in addition to blood and lines of angry red are spreading out across her abdomen.

I’m not a healer—at most, I’ve only ever been a medic, binding wounds too serious to move without attention until a real healer could see to them. But I do my best to cool her off, wetting a bandage for her forehead and elevating her enough to get some water down her throat. Neither helps overmuch, and while her eyes move beneath the lids and she murmurs faint things I can’t make any sense of, she remains unconscious.

I carry Nalissa in my arms for a while, trying to ignore the pain from my wound and not hurt hers, until I realize I’ll never make it to the city this way. Then I put her down for a moment, moving the contents of Nalissa’s pack to mine, and with a lot of persistence and repeated promises that it’s for the sake of his mistress, manage to convince Dante to let me strap the pack around him like a harness. Then, carefully as I can manage, I lift Nalissa onto my back with her head resting on my good shoulder.

It definitely isn’t painless, but it works. Before long the monotony of my march leaves entirely too much time for my mind to wander. I think of the Crows, the contract on her life, who would have tried to have her killed when she was so young and then who could have revived the contract years later. Nalissa’s idea that it might have been an Orlesian noble doesn’t quite tally, because why would a random Orlesian now suddenly decide they hate her enough to pay for her life again? There’s something more personal to it, I think, that I’m missing.

As we go, still Nalissa mumbles into my ear. Half the words I can’t make out, but even disjointed I can put together enough to guess the direction of her thoughts is not a happy one. She worries—or perhaps dreams—of the Crows, of Howe, that the pain in her side is meant to make her give up… something, though I can’t understand what.

I speak to her as I walk, whatever soothing things I can think to say, and I think it might help a little. Her fingers twitch on occasion at the sound of my voice, but she doesn’t seem to speak _to_ me. When she says something about “won’t” and “Alistair,” though, I hesitate and ask her to repeat what she said.

Nalissa gives a little sigh that tickles my neck and mutters something like, “Yurd me. Won’ lechu haffim. Won’ lose… n’bdy elsai luf.”

Well, that was certainly illuminating, I muse wryly. Most of those words seemed to have too many vowels, and the rest too few. The word “lose” had been pretty clear, though… Is she trying to say that she doesn’t want to lose me? The idea has a slow warmth starting in my chest, and almost makes me forget the situation we had to be in for her to say it.

If she wasn’t unconscious, I would probably still be smiling whenever I think of what she’d said in Lowe’s shack. After all, she doesn’t just want to get out of this mess and go home. She specifically said she wanted to go back to Denerim _with me_ , like _I’m_ the important detail. Even if she did also nearly let herself get killed trying to make that happen.

A thought strikes me, the kind of crazy one that makes me think I must be even more exhausted than I’d thought. It had… almost sounded like she hadn’t quite been saying she doesn’t want to lose me. It had _almost_ sounded like she said she wouldn’t lose anyone else she _loved_.

It’s like being struck by another lightning spell, the very idea, and I freeze in place for a short moment before I remember I can’t afford to stop and push on. It’s patently ridiculous, of course. She must have meant she wouldn’t lose a buddy’s side in life, or… or a bloody elfin laugh. Those make just about as much sense, after all. And people with fevers are commonly delusional. She probably has no idea what she’s saying. And yet…

The concept sticks in my mind as I trudge on, Dante whining a complaint from one side my only distraction. So I turn the thought over in my head, examine it, and find that while it’s unbelievable and unlikely and a dozen other un-things, the idea makes my face burn even more than the long walk we’re still on. Nalissa likes my company well enough to agree to marry me, enough that she hasn’t disappeared while I slept. And I’ve caught her eyes softening when they turn in my direction, even when she doesn’t know I’m looking. But she couldn’t _love_ me. Not so soon, not someone like her that guards herself so closely.

I glance at where her cheek rests on my shoulder, face flushed with fever, hair matted with sweat, one eyebrow still marked from the mage’s knife, and still she’s just as beautiful as always, if only slightly more unreadable. What does love mean for her, I wonder? As fiercely as she defends the things she cares for, I can only imagine intensity and comfort and that soft smile she gives me when we’re alone.

The thought makes my heart hammer against my ribs with something besides just exertion. I have to remind myself it’s a foolish thing to think, especially now. To love someone else would probably be terrifying for her after everything she’s been through. Maybe even something she wouldn’t let herself risk again. After all, there’s nothing so special about me that she should want to.

Some small part of me wonders if she couldn’t both love me and be afraid, but I decide quickly that’s a dangerous line of thinking. Especially considering, as much as I had hoped to be able to fall in love with the woman Eamon wanted me to marry, now that she’s here and she’s Nalissa and I find myself so very unable to even put to words how I feel about her, I’ve realized that I may not even know what love is _supposed_ to look like.

I don’t know how many miles it is to Amaranthine, but the sun is high by the time we reach the north road and when I can finally see the city walls rising in the distance, I’m so exhausted I think I’m moving on force of will alone. My right shoulder _aches_ from the strain and Nalissa is still mumbling incoherently into my left, but we’re too close to give up now.

Surely Amaranthine of all places must have a healer. The Wardens would not be so foolish as not to keep a very good one. But it takes a lot of talking at the barred gates to the keep before I convince one of the sentries that I am in fact a Grey Warden myself. The boy must be fairly new to the order, if he can’t sense what I am immediately.

I don’t recognize any of the Wardens that cast me suspicious glances as I stagger inside, but I don’t care. I demand a healer and glare until someone appears to leave to retrieve one. When the woman appears, I nearly fall over in shock.

Wynne is giving me that same patient smile with those same twinkling eyes as she asks, “Now, surely it isn’t _you_ I’m told was making such a ruckus in here, young man?”

* * *

My dreams are troubled and strange.

Rendon Howe is alive and this time wants me dead and to force Alistair to marry his daughter, Delilah, that she could be queen and Howe sit as regent. I fight him, cutting down hundreds of faceless men he’s sending after the both of us, even though every time I turn, Howe stabs me in the back.

I’m back in Fort Drakon. This time instead of shackles, I’m pinned to the wall with a spear in my left side, wasting all of my strength trying to keep upright so the wound doesn’t tear larger. Howe touches me gently at first, apologetically, insisting he can help if I will only convince Alistair. With a jolt, I realize Alistair is there beside me in the shackles I used to wear as Howe readies a lash, and abruptly I decide. I grip the spear hard, pull myself forward with all the strength I have left, and as Howe draws back the lash, wrap it around my other hand and then around his neck, the weight of my own failing body pulling him down.

 _This_ was Roderick’s decision, I realize, to be a shield until his last breath because if it was all he could do, he would do that one last thing right. Somehow, I find that I’m not surprised I would do the same for Alistair.

I can’t quite make sense of the parts that come after. I am alone and vaguely threatening shadows reach toward me, shaped like talons and beaks and fanged maws. Everything is gray and misty, too undefined to tell even if I sit or stand, and I wonder if this is the Void.

“How in the world did you end up like this, young lady?” asks a gentle but mildly reproachful voice. I think it the voice of Andraste, perhaps, until a more familiar one answers.

“That’s a story that could take longer than she has.”

I look around but see nothing, including wherever Alistair could be speaking from. Then something blessedly cool starts at my forehead and begins to spread, and only then do I realize how stifling the heat had been. It feels like I melt into the mist, weightless, and this time it isn’t frightening.

“You took very good care of her, for what you had to work with,” the woman’s voice says kindly. Alistair speaks words I can’t make out, but the woman responds simply, “I have done what I can. Now she needs time.”

After that, even my ears go misty and I feel like I slip into a different dream, or maybe just a blank space in my mind. Still I occasionally hear a few snatches of words, but the speakers are unclear and I’m not certain they actually go together.

“… long have the two of you been fleeing these…”

“… couldn’t let her leave alone, not when _Zev_ was afraid…”

“… quite _gentlemanly_ of you, my dear boy. Almost…”

“… how do you even know if you’re—you know—if you _feel_ …”

“…’ll be fine, Alistair. Perhaps you should talk to her…”

Eventually I slip into a deeper sleep, this time dreaming of the day Father brought Dante home, intending him to be a partner for Fergus, until the mabari had his own ideas. Father’s laugh is at once the most comforting and heart-rending thing I’ve heard, because I had thought I’d forgotten it. It’s just as he smiles and tells me how proud he is that I jolt awake.

Jolting, perhaps, is not the best idea I’ve ever had. My entire left side is sore and a low groan sneaks past my teeth before I’m conscious enough to stop it. The room is blurry at first, but a few blinks bring it into focus. I’m in a small bed in a room that’s mostly dark except for one flickering oil lamp. I have no idea where I am or how I got here, and I’m starting to panic until I catch sight of Alistair asleep in an armchair to my right.

He’s still scruffy from the road, the stubble from two weeks of travel starting to turn into a thin beard that’s surprisingly more red-brown than red-blond like his hair. But he looks peaceful and unworried, and for a moment I wonder if we’ve gotten somewhere safe at last.

Then the door on the other side of the room opens, and the woman that walks through it carries a staff on her back. I reach under my pillow but find no dagger, look down and realize someone has changed me into a clean shift so my blades are nowhere to be seen, and invoke Andraste’s name in a way that would have made Mallol blush. The closest thing to a weapon I spy anywhere nearby is a pair of knitting needles perched on a chair near my bed, so I pull them from the heap of yarn and leap to place myself between the mage and Alistair. Dante bounds to my side at the sudden movement, and his presence at my side is more comforting than the makeshift weapons.

“Dear me, you’ve dropped all my stitches!” the woman complains with a frown, and I can’t say what look crosses my face, but apparently she finds it amusing enough to chuckle at me. “Come now, you mean to fight a senior enchanter with her own knitting needles? I suppose I should be happy Alistair travels with one so ready to defend him, but you realize it will take an Age to salvage that sweater?”

The sheer absurdity of her concerns give me pause, and I straighten my back a little as I ask slowly, “Who are you?”

The woman smiles, and the laugh lines on her wizened face show that it’s something she does a lot. “I am Wynne. I take it our dear king hasn’t spoken of me. And after I darned his socks through the entire Blight! Imagine the nerve!”

I hesitate, still holding onto the two little metal rods uncertainly. But I remember the scar on his chest, the one he’d mentioned should have killed him. “I… think he may have. You’re the healer? The mage?”

“Ah yes, I do believe I was the only one he bestowed the title of ‘mage.’ Morrigan was always ‘apostate’ or ‘maleficar’ or ‘swamp witch.’ Frankly, it’s a small wonder she never _really_ turned him into a frog. Alistair is a dear boy, but the two of them mixed as well as oil and water.”

“Right,” I say, slowly lowering the knitting needles. They would have been very little use at range anyway. “I, er, I’m Nalissa.”

Wynne gives me an ear-to-ear smile that makes me feel like I’m missing a joke of some kind. “Oh, that I know! He’s done little but fret over you since he carried you in the gate. And long before that, I’m sure.”

“Carried me in?” I repeat, glancing back at him. “But he was hurt too.”

The old woman chuckles softly. “Alistair’s wound was neither as deep nor as dangerous as yours, young lady. But I suspect he could have been bleeding to death himself and still would have found a way to bring you to us. His honor would not have let him fail. Nor would the depth of his affection for you.”

My face burns at the way she says it, which only makes her laugh again. “Oh dear, you seem slightly _feverish_ again,” she says in a manner I’m starting to suspect is actually _intentionally_ goading. “Do you need a cold compress?”

“I’m fine, thank you,” I answer shortly, and Wynne’s eyes twinkle at me.

“Well, if you’re certain. But kindly do let Alistair sleep, dear. He’s spent the better part of the last two days waiting for you to awaken.”

“Two days?” I repeat, moving to sit on the bed and shaking my head as I do. Dante leaps up beside me to put his head on my lap. “I’ve been asleep for that long?”

“You’ve been _unconscious_ for that long,” Wynne corrects, taking back her knitting needles from my hand and beginning the task of attempting to salvage her sewing. “You’re very lucky he thought to bring you here, and doubly so that I was still in the city. I meant to take ship this morning, but I suspect the matters my fellow mages mean to argue over can wait a day more.”

“Where is here?” I ask, gesturing vaguely toward the nondescript wall.

“Vigil’s Keep. In Amaranthine.”

Suddenly I’m very glad I’m sitting down, because all the air goes out of my lungs in a whoosh like I was just punched in the stomach. My vision turns fuzzy around the edges but I barely notice for the ice water suddenly flooding my veins. _Vigil’s Keep_. It’s been fifteen years since I was last here, but how many times had Rendon Howe threatened to cut out my tongue and bring me back to this very fortress for execution if I continued to defy his will?

I only realize my hands are shaking when Wynne’s wrinkled ones touch them gently. “ _Are_ you alright, Lady Cousland? I apologize if I offended—”

“No,” I answer, a little hoarsely, then swallow in attempt to stop my mouth from being so dry before trying again. “I’m fine, don’t worry. I’m harder to embarrass than all that; I do have an older brother. And Nalissa. Nalissa is fine.”

Wynne smiles and pats my hand. “Well, Nalissa, the Grey Wardens guard this keep now and Alistair is one of theirs as much as he is king of Ferelden. Trust me when I say that you will be safe here. Perhaps you should get some more rest; even magic cannot heal every hurt.”

I almost say that I feel fine, but though my left side no longer hurts like it did, it’s still sore enough that isn’t entirely true. “Thank you.”

“Of course, my dear, of course. Another hour or so and someone should be preparing lunch. Until then, perhaps you would care to help me mend this sweater?”

I manage to choke out a laugh past the closeness of my throat. “My mother gave up trying to teach me to sew ten years ago, but if you think you have the patience for that, be my guest.”

Wynne’s blue eyes twinkle at me again. “Why, I once taught _Alistair_ to properly mend tears in his shirts. After that, I daresay I’m up to the task.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It occurred to me the other day that some of you might prefer to keep an eye out for updates in other places besides just checking AO3. So if you'd like to have a different resource for checking update status, I'm stabatha-says on tumblr where you can prod with questions or prompts if you'd like, and I post chapter update notifications to the Caboodling with Alistair group on facebook as well. :)


	24. Revelation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry, this took ages to write to my own satisfaction but here it is at last!

When someone tries to shake me awake, I hum something vague and try to wave them away. Whoever it is then goes so far as to touch my face, and I’m frowning and preparing a rebuke when a voice that’s unmistakably Nalissa’s says my name.

My eyes fly open instantly, my left hand darting to capture hers on my cheek. She smiles at me and the worry that had twisted my chest into knots for days starts to melt. “You’re awake! I’m not dreaming, am I?”

At that, she laughs quietly and teases, “Dream about me a lot, do you?”

This time I’m careful to avoid her waist, just in case. I draw her in by her hand in mine and Maker’s breath, it’s a relief to kiss her again and feel her smile against my lips. My thumb brushes the left side of her face, where a thin white scar now breaks the dark line of her eyebrow, and only then do I answer.

“After you went and scared me like that? Every time I closed my eyes. But please don’t do it again.”

Nalissa gives a soft, breathy sort of laugh that makes my insides feel like jelly. Jelly in distress, but very happy for its predicament.

“I suppose I could _try_ to minimize near-death experiences. For you.”

“Before I accept that blindly, what do you consider ‘minimized?’ Just one a month, or…?”

Nalissa cuts me off with a chuckle and a squeeze of my hand. “We can negotiate later. Wynne has promised me there’s food somewhere in this place, and I _think_ I haven’t eaten in three days or so. Have I mentioned I turn into a bear on an empty stomach?”

“Literally or figuratively?” I ask as I rise. “Because I once knew someone that _actually_ transformed into a bear and roared at me for taking the last bit of chicken. Very unpleasant experience. Bears have very bad breath, did you know that?”

I ramble the entire way down to the dining hall, because I’m suddenly too nervous in Nalissa’s presence again. And she laughs at my terrible jokes, because presumably she thinks I’ve gone insane from lack of sleep. But it feels like much more than that.

I can’t quite explain what’s changed in the way I think of her, but something has. Wynne refused to admit how bad Nalissa was, what might have happened if we hadn’t made it to Amaranthine in time, but I had watched her worsen. By the time Wynne began her healing, Nalissa had passed the unintelligible rambling and gone still and quiet. And the thought that a small delay could have been the difference, _that I could have lost her_ , pierces like a spear through a weak spot in armor.

Wynne raises her eyebrows when we join her at her table, and for a moment I have the irrational thought that she somehow knows exactly what I’m thinking and means to tease me for it. But when she speaks, it’s to Nalissa.

“I thought you were going to let him sleep?”

Nalissa shakes her head and rests her chin on one palm to look at me. “I didn’t want to chance him waking up and not being able to find me,” she says, and this time I think I can read the intent in her eyes. I think she was afraid I would assume she had broken her promise.

The softness in her eyes fades to mischief as she looks back to Wynne though. “You know, I kept picturing him realizing I was gone and ripping the keep apart until he found me. Not that I would lament the loss of this _place_ , but it doesn’t seem the proper image for a king.”

I don’t know what she means, at first. It seems an odd thing for her to despise a Grey Warden fortress until I remember who it belonged to before Amaranthine was ceded to the order. At once, the dark glances she keeps giving to the head table take on a different meaning. She probably remembers when Howe sat in the Warden-Commander’s seat.

As for me, it’s distracting after so long to be in the company of other Wardens again. The prickling at the edges of my awareness, the strange extra sense for darkspawn and those blighted by their corruption, seems louder and more distracting than I remember it. It reminds me of the time just after my Joining, when everything seemed too bright and too sharp in proximity to the horde.

That in turn reminds me I still haven’t told Nalissa what being a Grey Warden means, and my nagging guilt returns. But even if I wanted to, I couldn’t tell her here, I reason. The Wardens would never stand for the secrets of the Joining being known outside our number; they might conscript her or worse. No, that must wait for another time.

Someone shouts my name, and I look up in surprise to see a familiar bright red beard. It’s natural that the beard is the first thing I see, because it belongs to a dwarf who stands about as tall as I am sitting. He’s grinning in a way that warns me his next words will be at my expense before he adds, “Lookit you, boy! Is that what humans consider a beard? Guess that’s why you were never so keen on trying to grow a proper one. I’ve seen nugs with more hair on their chins, but right on you for trying.”

“Oghren!” I greet him with a clap on the shoulder. “Still just as much ale dribbled into _your_ beard as always, I see.”

Naturally, the dwarf laughs. “S’pose there is, at that. What’re you doing here? Weren’t you supposed to be living it up in the palace, lording over the dusters, leaving the darkspawn and the saving the world to the dwarves with axes, huh?”

“Er, something like that,” I begin, but before I’ve begun to think of a way to explain what I’m doing in Vigil’s Keep, Oghren has cut me off anyway.

“Heard about that ‘Mother’ business and came to see, aye? Well, good luck getting any of it out of the boss. Even drink don’t loosen him up, it’s sodding unnatural. Makes me miss the princess, and she never talked ’til she damn well pleased either, but least she looked better telling me to shove my questions.”

“‘The boss’ being this Warden-Commander Caron that still hasn’t seen fit to answer any of my letters?” I wonder, frowning toward the still-empty seat at the head table.

“That’s the one,” Oghren agrees, taking a seat across from me and only then seeming to notice Nalissa. “Well, shave my back and call me an elf! You finally took my advice and found yourself a girl!”

As I contemplate deeply whether it’s possible to be so mortified you actually die, Nalissa mutters simply, “Charming.”

“He grows on you, most unfortunately,” Wynne says with a longsuffering look. “Not unlike a particularly stubborn wart.”

Oghren waggles his eyebrows and moustache in what I’m sure he thinks is somehow an alluring manner. “Careful, or someone might think _we’ve_ been tapping the midnight still.”

“I assure you, no one would think that.”

“Sure they would. You’re still lively for a lady your age. Maybe the elf had the right of it…”

“So help me, Oghren, if you mention my bosoms—”

Nalissa interrupts by dropping her fork onto her plate with a clatter. “And on that note I think I’m done eating, possibly forever.”

Oghren bursts into a fit of raucous laughter that includes banging his gauntleted fist on the table. It’s almost like being back in camp, sitting around the fire and listening to the chatter over whatever meal Leliana had managed to make materialize. It makes me feel oddly… homesick isn’t quite the right word for it, but something along those lines. I’ve missed having companions and friends in Denerim. The king doesn’t have many of either of those things.

And with Nalissa dressed in a tunic with a griffon emblazoned on the chest—no doubt provided by Wynne courtesy of the Wardens to replace her bloodied clothes—it’s easy enough to imagine her there too. I amuse myself for a moment imagining how different the Blight would have been if Nalissa had been Duncan’s Highever recruit instead of Jory. She and Sereda on the same mission would have been a force of nature. No army or archdemon would have stood before them.

Still, I think the Nalissa of before her family was lost is the most interesting part of that daydream. I have a hard time picturing her less guarded, but surely she must have been. Maybe she laughed easier, and told jokes that weren’t at her own expense. As much as she knows about Grey Warden history, I can picture her plying every Warden in camp for the order’s secrets from the moment she arrived. I bet she would have gotten some too, probably by winning some challenge she had been expected to fail like a duel or a drinking contest. She would have been a breath of fresh air to the tense atmosphere at Ostagar, I’m sure of it.

It’s all a fun little daydream until that voice in the back of my head I try to ignore points out that she also probably never would have looked twice at me. It was the very responsibilities the Wardens would have freed her of that brought her to me, after all.

The title of “little pike-twirler” catches my ears, and I turn my attention to Oghren with a groan. Why had I been feeling nostalgic for this, again?

Despite the dwarf’s best attempts, he can’t convince any of us to drink with him at noon and shakes his head as we leave him in the dining hall with a tankard of foul-smelling ale. Nalissa glances sideways at me as soon as we start up the stairs.

“So, these were your friends from the Blight?”

“More or less. Oghren’s full of even more innuendo than usual to make up for Zevran not being available, I suspect.”

“Suddenly it seems even more miraculous than before that the Blight ended so quickly.”

I laugh, consider the fact that she doesn’t even know about Sten or Shale, and add, “You have no idea. Did I mention Zevran was hired to kill us and Oghren only agreed to help to save his wife, who then tried to kill us too?”

“At least I can take comfort in knowing I’m not the only one everyone wants dead,” she says, and I frown at the dark tone.

“‘Everyone’ doesn't want you dead. I very much don’t want you to die.”

Nalissa pauses to turn and smile softly at me. Standing on the step above, she’s close to my height but the way she tilts her head down slightly to look at me through her lashes anyway makes her look almost… shy?

“So I heard. We were miles from anywhere when I went to sleep. Wynne said you carried me the whole way. You… you didn’t have to do that, Alistair.”

I probably look at her like I think she’s crazy, because that’s definitely what I’m thinking. “Of course I did! What else was I supposed to do, let you die?”

“You were hurt too,” she argues, her eyes flickering to my shoulder. “It must have been awful, walking so long carrying something with that arm.”

“What is it you usually say? I’ve had worse?” She scowls, but I smile and brush the frown lines away with my thumb. “For you, I would have walked it in armor made of bacon with hungry wolves nipping at my heels. Fortunately for me, none were available.”

Nalissa chuckles softly and shakes her head. “You know, for all your talk of how I don’t think my life is worth enough, you don’t seem to value yours overmuch either.”

“Of course I do. I just think about yours more.”

She lifts her chin a little to look at me more directly. I’m at a loss for how to read what I see there again, but I swear when she looks at me like that, I think she can see into my soul.

Then she kisses me, and this time, it’s different. Before when she’s been the one to kiss me first, they’ve been slow, gentle, little gestures of reassurance and affection. This kiss is sudden and fierce, so much so in fact that I think if she hadn’t hooked one arm behind my shoulder to pull me into it, I might have staggered back down the stairs.

My hands catch at her hips in surprise and then her other hand is in my hair, raking against the back of my head like she can’t manage to pull me close enough. My head goes fuzzy, maybe I forget to breathe, I can’t tell. I only know I’m tugging at her hair in search of an angle to kiss her more deeply, like that’s suddenly the only way I can think of to tell her how terrified I was she wouldn’t wake up, and just when I think my heart is beating so loudly I’ve gone deaf to all else, she makes a soft sound low in her throat that sends a shiver down my spine.

“Whoa—hello,” a strange voice says, and Nalissa nearly jumps out of her skin. Her right hand darts to her side, and then she freezes. Reaching for a dagger she isn’t carrying, no doubt.

I look over my shoulder to see one of the Wardens, a man at least a decade older than me with a rather intimidating moustache, breaking into a grin from the stairs behind me. “There are rooms just upstairs much better suited to that, you know,” he points out conversationally as he passes. “But don’t let me interrupt. Do carry on.”

Nalissa’s cheekbones are bright red, but I can’t tell if that’s from embarrassment or just from the kiss. She watches as the man passes before she looks back at me, and when she does, a quiet laugh chokes itself from my throat. I think it’s entirely leftover nerves, and mercifully, she gives a weak half-laugh too.

“Sorry,” she says quietly, tucking a lock of hair back behind her ear that I must have accidentally freed. “I… Thank you.”

It takes me longer than it should to remember what she could possibly be thanking me for. By the time I do, I find that I’m nervous under her gaze again.

“All I did was keep my promise. I told you, neither of us is dying out here. We’re going to fix all of this and go home and… and you’ll never have to be hurt like that again,” I finish lamely, because I can’t bring myself to say the things I want to. And when she kisses me again, this time short and gently like she always has before continuing up the stairs, I worry I might have said the wrong thing.

* * *

Vigil’s Keep is at least improved by its new Grey Warden occupation, I’ll grant it that, though personally I feel it could be improved further by being burned to the ground. Alistair on the other hand seems almost at ease here. He excitedly shows me around the keep and its grounds, pointing out monuments to prolific Wardens, including one incredibly serious-looking Sereda Aeducan. At dinner, a handful of Warden recruits with wide eyes accost him for stories of the Blight and with a dose of good humor, he obliges. He’s a pretty good storyteller, even though the now rather drunk dwarf from earlier keeps interrupting with a collection of forced double entendres.

How it devolves from there, I can’t quite say. One moment, a young Warden that had apparently also fought at Ostagar is saying how he wishes he’d had a chance to do something so important instead of fleeing with his family, and Alistair is assuring him that protecting his elderly mother was a noble enough thing too. The next, Oghren is insisting a drink will keep them all from being so serious and much to my surprise and apparently also the dwarf’s, Alistair agrees. Of course, the recruits want to do whatever their new hero is up to, and in the end, I shrug and agree that after the week I’ve had, I could use a drink too.

“But none of that dwarven brew,” I specify immediately. “That swill tastes like it’s already been drank and recycled.”

Oghren gives a disapproving grunt. “Humans! You wouldn’t appreciate good ale if someone threw it in your face.”

“I wouldn’t appreciate a West Hill brandy thrown in my face either, but that one I would drink,” I counter, and he snorts a laugh.

Despite my warning, one of the recruits decides to sample the dwarven drink anyway. And then promptly spews it out of his mouth over the edge of the table.

“Sweet Maker, this _does_ taste like piss!”

The group erupts into a roar of laughter, Oghren bangs his fist on the table in his mirth, and the rest of us begin a search for actual, palatable alcohol. The Wardens have a nice little collection of spirits stashed away, in fact. I try not to wonder if they inherited that from the keep’s former owner too.

Either way, they do in fact have West Hill brandy. The only woman of Alistair’s Warden-recruit admirers, a slight elven girl with striking blue-violet eyes, gives this a try and makes the mistake of gulping down an entire mouthful to start and nearly chokes. It doesn’t have so much kick as all that, but it doesn’t take much to guess she likely hasn’t had much experience with liquor. The others laugh but I pat her on the back and tell a story of how I once accidentally did the same with a Legacy White Shear, complete with exaggerated rendition of coughing it back into my brother’s face, and the girl gives me an appreciative look when they’re laughing at me instead.

I second guess my decision when the tipsy girl starts flirting with Alistair. Only a short while later, she’s leaning over the edge of the table toward him, her chin in her palm and her hair falling across one side of her face as she looks at him. I can’t entirely blame her—he _is_ unfairly handsome in the flickering light of the sconces, and she is leaning toward drunk—but still it stirs something oddly possessive in me that I didn’t even know I had. It’s a much less pleasant sort of burn than the warmth of the alcohol.

For his part, Alistair seems completely oblivious, even when she goes so far as to put a hand over his forearm while she giggles at him. When her thumb starts to trace lightly over the back of his arm though, even he looks at her quizzically and it takes every ounce of my self-control not to threaten to remove her hand for her.

“Alright dove, that’s quite enough of all that,” I interrupt, taking a firm hold of her arm and dragging her to her feet. She blinks confusion at me with those glittering eyes, but I steer her insistently toward the doors without a mind for her sputtered objections. Halfway there, I find another woman, this one middle-aged and quite sober, and foist the tipsy elf onto her to get her back to her room.

I return to the table, then shake my head and drain the rest of my glass of brandy all at once before looking up. When I do, I swear Oghren is stifling a snicker into his tankard, one of the recruits has actually fallen asleep on his face, and Alistair is staring at me like I’ve just pledged fealty to Orlais. For a brief moment, no one moves. Then the recruits start to stand all at once, two of them lifting their friend between them, and disappear. Finally the dwarf waggles his eyebrows and says suggestively, “Shouldn’t the two of you be running off to bed too?”

Seeing as he’s been bursting with innuendo all day, I think nothing of it. On the way back to the room, the drink starts to go to my head and I catch onto Alistair’s arm for support on the stairs. Surprisingly, he’s steadier than I am, though maybe he just didn’t drink as much. _He_ didn’t get to watch a girl with pretty lavender eyes fawning all over him, after all.

We pause on the first landing, and as I’m trying to figure out why since this isn’t even the right floor, Alistair pulls me by my arm in his into the hallway. It’s dimly lit by only a couple of flickering sconces, and as he stops looking around to check it’s empty, the firefight reflects back at me from his amber eyes. My stomach feels suddenly warm and tingly in a way that has nothing to do with brandy.

“What did you say?” Alistair asks, and I frown my confusion at him.

“Nothing?” I guess, because I’m pretty sure I didn’t, but he shakes his head at me in a way that suggests otherwise.

“At the table,” he clarifies, and I try to remember the threads of a conversation I’ve already forgotten until he adds, “You… did you _mean_ to call me ‘love’?”

This time, I blink hard and shake my head a little, because I definitely heard that wrong. “Did I what now?”

“You called me ‘love,’” he repeats, and this time I can feel my face flushing. Hopefully it isn’t obvious in the shadows.

“I did not,” I object, finally putting the timing of his stunned look together and realizing what’s just happened. “I said ‘dove.’”

Alistair shakes his head solemnly, his eyes locked on mine, and the certainty in them makes me falter. I hadn’t, had I? Surely not. That definitely wasn’t what I meant to say. It isn’t even—

But I stop myself, mid-thought, midway through speaking, so all that comes out are three words: “I didn’t mean…”

Because, I realize with a sudden jolt, I can’t finish those thoughts truthfully. It was a slip of the tongue, surely, but not… not an incorrect one. I hadn’t stopped and examined it, hadn’t given myself time since setting out from Denerim, but I should have known the moment I knew I would give anything for him, including my own life.

I look into his eyes, eyes as kind as every word he’s ever spoken to me, as soft as his every touch, as patient as his every move, and finally I put the words to what it is he makes me feel. I love him. I can’t speak it, I’m not sure I even remember to breathe, because for a moment those words are all the thoughts my mind can form. Breathing is irrelevant in comparison. I love Alistair Theirin, and it’s at once the most comforting and most terrifying realization I’ve ever had.

Alistair hesitates, looking back and forth between my eyes, and then brushes his hand against my cheek and down my jaw. I try not to shudder, but the touch makes my skin feel like the air before a lightning strike. This time when he kisses me, it feels like I melt between him and the stone wall at my back. My knees turn weak, my fists clenched in the back of his shirt the only thing holding me upright as my heartbeat pounds the words _I love you_ like some sort of desperate mantra.

When we separate, we’re both out of breath. But perhaps “separate” isn’t the right word because I’m still flush between him and the wall, my hands pinning him to me as much as holding him for support. One of his forearms is braced against the wall beside my head and his other hand is at the small of my back, pulling me to him just as I’ve pulled him to me. His eyes are alight from within, not just the reflection of the fire, and whatever it is I see in them makes it hard to catch my breath.

 _I love you,_ beats my heart, so loudly it’s surely some kind of wonder he can’t hear it. But my lips can’t remember how to speak the words, even if I was brave enough to voice them.

Alistair loosens his grip first and trails his fingers lightly through my hair as he pulls away. He kisses the back of my hand as he draws it down from behind his shoulder, then laces his fingers together with mine. His smile is faint, almost shy again, as he says, “We should get some sleep. You’re clearly delirious from exhaustion to say such a thing!”

I want to object, but I seem to have left my voice somewhere along with my nerve and my kneecaps. I’m grateful for Alistair’s hand in mine on the stairs, and then again that he doesn’t object this time to sleeping beside me.

I fall asleep on his forearm, his fingers still trailing soothingly through my hair. And I dream of his arms holding me a different way, with his freckled shoulders bare above me and my legs wrapped around his waist.


	25. Out of Reach

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy holidays, everyone! ^_^
> 
> As a bonus, now that the crazy season at work is over, I should have way more time to write and updates should come back to being a more regular thing. Thanks for being patient with me through the delays!
> 
>  **Potential trigger warning** : If you have panic attacks and descriptions of such could be detrimental to your state of mind, please read this chapter with care!

Nalissa wakes before me, and it’s her lips on mine that pull me out of sleep. My dreams had been threatening and ominous, like they nearly always are since my Joining, but she’s the perfect antidote to the feeling of dread. So many of my worries lately have been for her that it’s a relief just to wake knowing that she’s safe. To wake to a kiss and those lovely sea-green eyes smiling down at me is probably the best morning I can remember.

“Good morning,” she says softly, her hair falling around my face like a curtain. It smells like vanilla and honeysuckle and her.

“You’re up bright and early after last night,” I observe, and she chuckles.

“Of course. It would be an insult to generations of Mac Eanraigs if I were to have a hangover from something as mundane as brandy.”

“Oh? That, what was it, Legacy Sheer or nothing?”

“Legacy White Shear,” she corrects me with a roll of her eyes. “Legacy because it’s rare and old and whatnot. White because it glows like lyrium. Shear because it’s a sipping whisky, and if you forget it’ll kick the hair right off your face.”

“Maybe I should try it then and save myself having to shave this off.”

I rub my jaw with the back of my hand, unused to the beard creeping its way down to my chin. Nalissa hums softly and runs her thumbs along the sides of my face, then says thoughtfully, “Maybe you should leave it, for now. If it grows in enough, and you don’t trim up your hair, you’ll look like a totally different person from a distance. Can’t hurt until the Crows are dealt with, right?”

I murmur noncommittally, watching her try to convince my hair to lie a different way and mostly just enjoying the feeling of her fingers combing through it. She’s safe here, but she’s already making contingency plans—determined to be ready as soon as we’re back on the road. I have to get in to see Warden-Commander Caron, I decide firmly. If anyone can keep her safe, it’s the Wardens; we’ll just need permission to stay until Zevran has dealt with the Crows.

I’m still trying to work out how I’m going to get in to see a man that has ignored every letter from the king of Ferelden as we head down to breakfast. Oghren, I think, seems to have worked with the Warden-Commander directly; perhaps he can get me in to see the man. The dwarf is nowhere to be seen so early though, and doesn’t come shambling in until I’m most of the way through my eggs and sausage. Quite unexpectedly, he’s in uniform, maybe come from guard duty or a patrol, because there’s a human man with him. Oghren points toward our table and the man looks toward us and shrugs.

Something shatters to my right, and I look over my shoulder to see Nalissa has knocked her cup off the table in a sudden rush to her feet. The look on her face makes my blood run cold, all wide eyes and blanched skin and lips parted in the most distilled terror I’ve ever seen. There’s something desperate and wild in her gaze, like I’ve seen in cornered animals but hadn’t imagined a woman like her even capable of.

I remember the night she woke me screaming, the tears streaking her face and the way she’d blindly tried to defend herself from an attacker that didn’t exist, and I realize what she’s about to do before she does it.

“Nalissa—no!” I try to interrupt her with words, but it’s just about as effective as it was that last time. Her hand at her belt draws back a knife, and I only just manage to knock her aim off enough that the blade sinks, quivering from the force, into the table instead of the strange man’s chest. She goes for another with her left hand too but I stop her mid-draw, holding her forearm as gently as I can manage and still keep her from trying to murder a Warden in the middle of the dining hall.

Dante snarls at Oghren and his companion and poises to spring, clearly taking an implied order from his mistress’s fear. To my surprise, he listens when I order him to heel, though he still places himself solidly between us and the approaching Wardens.

“What in the Maker’s name?” someone asks aloud, and I can hear the scraping of metal that sounds terribly like a blade being drawn. Wynne rises and holds out her hands in a calming gesture but Nalissa doesn’t even look toward the sound, just tries to break my grip with nails digging into my arm so hard I have to take hold of her other arm too.

“Let me go!” she snarls, throwing the whole weight of her body against me and when that fails, I have to step quickly to avoid a sharp stomp meant for my instep. “Get your hands _off me_!”

She’s positively roaring now, but her voice is higher pitched than usual and still she’s looking past me, toward Oghren and the man at his side. There’s horror that’s plain to see, but I have no idea why—if this man is actually someone that hurt her or if she’s suddenly caught up in a memory again and doesn’t recognize any of us. But she’ll hurt herself if she carries on like this, so I spin us around quickly where she can’t see the figures over my shoulder and when she only begins to panic more, pin her against my chest with her arms between us.

“Nalissa,” I whisper urgently into her hair as she struggles. “Lissa, it’s okay. Listen to me. You’re safe. I promise you, you’re safe. No one’s going to hurt you. I won’t let them.”

“You can’t be here,” she says into my chest, and I realize with alarm that her voice is shaking—that all of her is shaking now—with sobs instead of the blind rage of a moment before. “You’re not supposed to be here, he’ll kill you. Please let me go. _Please_.”

I catch Wynne’s eye, who is looking no less worried than I am. She looks over at the man beside Oghren and I do too. I don’t recognize him, I don’t think, but he might be vaguely familiar. He’s of average height, average build, no distinguishing scars or marks to speak of, and dressed in a studded gambison with a steel chestplate that I recognize as standard Warden issue for light combatants. None of this gives me the slightest clue why Nalissa would have reacted so violently to his appearance.

So I try my best to ignore him and the rightly stunned look on his face, and focus on her instead. “We’re safe here, remember? We’re in Amaranthine—”

Nalissa recoils at the word, shaking her head and breathing faster. Wynne puts a hand on my elbow and gestures toward the door. _Let’s get her out of here,_ her worried look seems to say, so I half pull and half carry Nalissa toward the exit, trying very hard not to notice all the startled and downright suspicious looks we’re getting.

Wynne leads us to a small room just off the hall that looks like a storage closet, then closes the door soundly. I think it might have the opposite of a calming effect because now apart from breathing in jerky little gasps, Nalissa is leaning heavily into my chest and no longer responding at all when I speak her name. I tentatively loosen my grip and though her whole body still trembles, her arms slide limply to her sides. Her eyes still stream tears but seem suddenly empty, as if she’s staring off into the distance but there isn’t actually a distance to stare off into.

This, I think with a feeling like ice water flooding my gut, is more terrifying than her rage. At least that I could understand, relate it to those dreams and know she’s confused where she is. But this shell of her doesn’t seem like her at all, as if her body is simply carrying on while what makes her Nalissa is lost somewhere in her own mind.

Desperately, I look to Wynne and hope to find answers. “Wynne, what’s happening? Is she—what’s she…?”

The mage’s brow is knit in the type of grandmotherly concern she gave me after the Landsmeet where I executed Loghain. She looks more sad than scared and reaches as if to touch Nalissa’s hair or shoulder reassuringly, then changes her mind and draws back the hand.

“Seeing young Nathaniel here, in the place she already associates with his family, must have been too much for her to take in.”

“His family—he’s a _Howe_?!” I repeat in disbelief. A particularly violent tremor runs down Nalissa’s back, but I can’t tell if she understood the name or it’s simple coincidence.

Wynne nods sadly. “I suspect he must favor his father. When you said that was the man who gave her those scars, I thought it a blessing Nathaniel was away. It seems not for so long as I would have hoped.”

A thought strikes me, and my voice turns sharp as I demand, “Was he—”

“In the Free Marches during the Blight,” Wynne assures me immediately, and the momentary fury lapses. He didn’t actually hurt her, then. Good. I can’t say what I would have done, if he had. Seeing her like this…

“Maker’s breath,” I whisper, brushing Nalissa’s hair back from her forehead and finding it damp with sweat. “You thought you saw _him_ , didn’t you?”

“Help her sit down,” Wynne advises and Nalissa complies without protest to sit on a nearby storage crate, but still there’s no sign of recognition in her eyes. It’s eerie, and I catch myself thinking uncomfortably that I’ve seen tranquil mages with more life in them.

“Is she going to be alright?” I worry, and Wynne lets out a soft sigh as she kneels beside her.

“These wounds are not the kind I can heal, I’m afraid, but they are a kind I’ve seen before. Petra had a quite similar episode before you and the others arrived to the Circle tower. It lasted only a little while.”

I nod slowly, but that doesn’t make me feel any better. As if half a year locked in that dungeon wasn’t enough, it’s bitterly unfair that the monster that hurt her can still haunt her from the grave. I don’t realize I spoke any of that aloud until Wynne pats my arm and says gently, “It _is_ unfair, Alistair. Many things in this world are, and there is little we can do to change them. But all the world is not hardship, and you yourself are perhaps the best example of that. After all you’ve endured, you remain a caring, compassionate soul, because that’s an unchangeable part of who you are. And judging by her attempt to protect you in the middle of her own delusion? Well I’m not a betting woman, but I’d wager she is too.”

“She is,” I agree, taking Nalissa’s hand and rubbing the back of it with my thumb. Wynne smiles at me.

“The way you look at her warms this old heart, my dear boy.” When I shoot her a confused look, she simply chuckles and adds, “I see you still haven’t talked to her yet. You should. But I’ll check to ensure all has quieted down outside and cease my meddling. For now.”

She winks as she leaves, and I frown. Whatever she says, I don’t feel very caring and compassionate myself, at the moment. I can only think how I seem to have made things worse for her by holding her still, and every thought I can’t keep myself from having of what Howe might have done to her while she was pinned and helpless to push her over this new edge of fear makes me wish I had killed the bastard more slowly.

* * *

When I finally… regain myself, I feel like I’ve just run from Highever to West Hill, or fought half the standing army of Ferelden one after the other. It’s worse than waking after that wound in my side had nearly killed me, not least of all because while I don’t entirely feel like it was real or even that it was actually me breaking down in a supply closet for who knows how long, I certainly remember what’s happened.

I haven’t panicked, really lost it like that, in front of anyone in a long time. Fergus made very sure it wasn’t happening anymore before he would allow me out of his sight. I think he finds it embarrassing. I just hate myself for being so weak.

It’s the stress, it has to be, I reason. There’s no other excuse for suddenly hallucinating that… _him_ walking toward me. It’s being under threat of death and back in Amaranthine at the same time, reminding me of everything he did and everything he swore he would do if I didn’t bend to his will. The fear is suddenly fresh enough again that I can’t bring myself to think the name, and on top of the physical exhaustion, that sudden block makes me mortifyingly ashamed. I don’t know how I forgot he was dead—that _Alistair_ killed him, _watched him die_ so there can be no mistake—but even as I struggle to calm my breaths and avoid Alistair’s gaze, I feel cold and vulnerable like I’m still back there.

For his part, Alistair is holding one of my hands in both of his and his skin is so warm it’s like a campfire against the chill in my blood. He’s always like that, I think, warm and comforting even when I’m so close to toppling off the edge again, and for some blighted reason, that brings more tears to my eyes. He startles a little when I move to wipe them away.

“Lissa?” he asks tentatively, his hands pausing, just a little too much pressure on mine. “Are you… are you feeling…?”

“Like I might vomit,” I say, though it comes out in a shaky shadow of my own voice. My hand against my face is shaking too, and I try for a couple of deep breaths. Maker, but I feel weak and useless, and I despise myself for that almost as much for what I thought I’d seen in the dining hall.

Finally I can’t take it, even though it’s him and I know it, even though it feels like he’s all the warmth in the entire world right now, and I pull my hand free. I catch my fingers in my hair, comb it all straight back against my scalp and ruin the braid, but I don’t care. I still can’t bring myself to look up, and when Alistair touches my shoulder instead, I’m not prepared enough to stop the reflexive cringe.

“Don’t,” I rasp, forgetting all pleasantries and regretting it immediately when he draws his hand back like my words burned him. I close my eyes and shake my head, still too afraid to look at his face. “Please don’t,” I amend, but it may be too late, I’m not sure if it’s any better, so I keep trying. “I don’t mean… It isn’t you. I—I quite like when you touch me, usually. I just _can’t_ right now. Please don’t.”

I try to put as much emphasis on the _can’t_ as possible, the only way I can think of to explain. He lets out a heavy sigh and I close my eyes tighter, certain I’ve offended him until he speaks and his voice is gentle. “I understand. Well, no, maybe not understand. I can’t imagine what that must have been like, but I… I _get it_ , at least a little. Don’t worry.”

A nervous laugh stutters past my lips that sounds a little crazy even to me. “I don’t remember how.”

“Do you… do you want to be alone?”

He’s so quiet, so serious, that I take another bracing breath and look up at last. Alistair has pulled another crate near the one I’m sitting on and even though it’s way too small for him, is perched on it and watching me closely. His face is lined with worry, but his eyes are soft and I get lost in them for a moment before I remember to blink. I shiver with the cold and wrap my hands around my upper arms securely, but I can’t look away from his eyes. They make me feel like I’m home, I realize, more than Highever has in a long time. When did they start doing that?

“No,” I say slowly, probably way too late for an answer, but with all this cold comes a certain numbness and in the aftermath of this… episode of mine, perhaps I could manage to explain a little.

Before I know it, I’m talking. About the things he’s guessed from the scars he’s seen, the lashing and carving and burning. About the things that only left marks inside my head, of near drownings and starvation and being locked inside a metal box until I was convinced they had buried me alive. I falter somewhere around there, discovering suddenly that my entire face is streaked with tears again. But even though I’ve still not spoken everything, I feel… a little lighter, maybe, as if giving words to the things I’ve avoided outside of nightmares has given me back some small measure of strength or control.

I decide not to go on when I clear the tears away enough to see the look of absolute horror on Alistair’s face. It strikes me hard how selfish it was to dump all of this on him. I wish I could take the words back, go back to pretending I don’t remember like I do for Fergus. No one deserves the images I’ve given him but now they’re there. I haven’t helped anything by admitting what was done to me; I’ve just shared the pain with him.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper, drawing my knees to my chest and hugging them tightly. “I shouldn’t have…”

When I trail off, Alistair moves like he means to take my hand and then withdraws again. His voice is a little strained, but firm. “No, Lissa. There’s no reason to be sorry. I… well, I didn’t think it was possible to hate anyone as much as I hate Howe now. But that’s his fault, not yours. You are the strongest person I’ve ever met, you know that? But nobody can be strong all the time. Anytime you need to talk about it, I’m here to listen. And do whatever I can to make you feel safe again.”

I was wrong, I think as I watch the emotion behind his soft brown eyes. It isn’t just his touch that’s warm and soothing, it’s everything about him, from those eyes to his soul. _I love you_ , my heart whispers again, but this time the thought comes with a sudden edge of panic. I know H— _that bastard_ is gone, but the thought of him—or _anyone_ —hurting Alistair lodges like a spike of solid fear in my heart right next to the happy hum of the words. So I hold it in my chest like a secret, the biggest one I have left but the most vital.

“Thank you,” I manage to say aloud, and his tentative smile makes my heart clench. I _will_ keep him safe if I have to go to the end of the world to do it.

“I mean it, Lissa.”

Very carefully, I reach for him, and he leans his cheek into my palm but doesn’t reach back. I can see how hard he’s trying to do as he says, to make me feel safe, but I don’t think he realizes how much of my worry is for him, not me.

I should tell him. I brush my thumb against the side of his face, warring with myself over whether it would be worse to say nothing or risk everything. “I know. You are… you’re very… that is, I—”

I can’t decide if I’m more startled or relieved when the door handle rattles. Alistair rises hastily, putting himself between me and the exit, but the toe of his boot catches on the crate he’s been sitting on and he stumbles toward the door. I can hear Wynne’s voice first as the door creaks open, seemingly caught mid-protest.

“—really must disagree with your brashness, young man.”

“And I really must disagree with your notion that yours would be the deciding say in _my_ keep.”

The man who steps into the supply closet is, thankfully, in no way familiar. He’s taller than me but shorter than Alistair, with olive skin and dark, slanted eyes. He also has an unmistakable air of authority and the expectation for that to be obeyed. Coupled with his very Orlesian accent, I don’t need three guesses to figure out that this must be the Warden-Commander Oghren mentioned.

“Warden-Commander Caron, I presume?” Alistair asks lightly, and though I can’t see his face, I picture him wearing his most innocent smile as though he has no idea what the problem could be.

“Warden Theirin,” the Orlesian man says with a curt nod, and my eyebrows rise instantly. I’m not sure if it’s a mark of respect in his order to default to that title, but it strikes me the wrong way. Perhaps it’s my own experience with Orlesian nobles coloring my thoughts, but it sounds a lot like an attempt to not recognize Alistair’s _other_ , potentially more inconvenient title.

“What seems to be the problem?” Alistair continues with an offhand shrug. But I think I catch Wynne shooting a glance at him over the Warden’s elbow.

“That is what I’ve come to discover for myself,” says the Warden-Commander, crossing his arms and puffing up his chest. It was intentional, the use of the Warden title, I decide. This man wishes to address the king of Ferelden as a subordinate, and that strikes me wrong in all sorts of ways.

Still, Alistair seems not to notice, waving off the concern with a short laugh. “What, in there, earlier? Nothing to worry about, I assure you! The lady thought she saw a rat and got a bit over-excited. You know all about noble ladies and pests, I’m sure.”

“And she threw a knife at a rat?”

“Yes, well, she thought it was a very _large_ rat.”

Despite Alistair’s best effort to physically shield me from the man’s gaze, his eyes lock onto mine. And despite the fatigue currently making my legs feel useless, I haul myself onto my feet anyway. I may feel weak, but I raise my chin and lock my knees so they aren’t shaking under my weight. I will face down no man and let him feel he has the advantage.

“You are Lady Cousland, are you not?”

“I am,” I answer, pleased with myself when my voice doesn’t falter.

“And you’re frightened of rats, as the Warden here says?”

“Terrified,” I lie without flinching from his gaze. “The first night my father left me in charge of the castle, I found a dozen of them in the larder, attacking my hound. Haven’t looked at them the same since.”

I throw in a kernel of truth for good measure, but his eyes narrow anyway, one hand moving to stroke his goatee. “I see. I had heard quite different tales of you.”

“Oh? Perhaps you have me mistaken with Lady Bryland. Many of our names do sound similar to outside ears.”

The Warden-Commander actually snorts. “My mother was Fereldan; that’s a _small_ part of why I was granted this command. I speak common just as well as any. Try again.”

“The lady is quite shaken up,” Alistair tries to interrupt, but Caron actually raises a hand to silence him.

“You know as well as I that the Grey Wardens take in only what will make us stronger. No dead weight. I allowed you sanctuary here despite your renouncement of our order out of respect for what you and Warden Aeducan accomplished, but if this girl is as fragile as you imply, I cannot sanction her continued presence within my fortress.”

I watch Alistair’s shoulders tense, the shift of his stance as he draws himself to his full height, and I interject before he can say something he’ll regret.

“And out of purely theoretical curiosity, just what would you consider enough to earn my keep?”

The Warden-Commander’s dark eyes fix on me again, and this time I swear there’s a smile curling under his goatee. “One of my men, Renner, swears a lady Cousland saved his family’s entire farmhold during the Fifth Blight. To hear him tell it, you and two knights brought down a group of fifty darkspawn just off the Imperial Highway. But of course, a woman like that could hardly be terrified of rats.”

“You will _not_ be recruiting my betrothed,” Alistair snaps, and his voice suddenly alarms me. His fists are clenched at his sides, and he’s growling the words through his teeth like a threat. I’ve never seen him angry like this, and it makes me glad I can’t see what it’s doing to his face.

But where his tone makes me edge back toward the wall a little, it seems to have the opposite effect on the other man. The Warden-Commander leans forward slightly as he counters, “I would have the right, if I chose.”

Alistair doesn’t back down. “Wardens don’t conscript outside of blights. Especially not in countries they were until very recently expelled from. _Especially_ not the future wife of the king that granted them an arling.”

For a moment, I worry blades will be drawn. Caron is certainly looking enough of them at Alistair, and judging by the thin line Wynne’s lips have been pursed into, Alistair can’t be very different. But after a long, tense moment that wreaks havoc on my tattered nerves, the Warden-Commander relents.

“Fortunately, recruitment was never my terms. If she is decent enough with a blade as the damage to my dining table suggests, she could earn the right to stay by assisting with combat training. Let’s say, first light.”

Alistair’s shoulders relax a little, but only a little. “Fine. We will.”

“After two years of letting your blade dull in Denerim? I think you had best begin with scouting missions, Warden Theirin.” Caron definitely smiles this time as he backs out of the door. “No dead weight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a really poor intro to my Orlesian Warden-Commander tbh because right now he's just coming off as a prick, but I swear there's more to him than that lol. He's just predisposed to pissing contests.


	26. Respect

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Friday, everyone! Back on schedule as promised, with an extra long chapter, even! Have some fluff and some action and hopefully a surprise or two. :)

I’m still fuming when we reach the guest room Nalissa and I have been staying in. I can forgive Caron wanting everyone to be useful; that much was to be expected. I don’t even really care that he tried to pull rank on me; that I probably should have seen coming, too. But for him to even _suggest_ that the price of keeping Nalissa safe be giving her life to the Wardens? No matter how much I care about the order, whatever he may think to the contrary, I won’t lose her to them any more than to the Crows.

Nalissa hesitates in the doorway, and my anger ebbs a little when I look back at her. She really must be exhausted to no longer be holding her chin up or her shoulders back, and she looks smaller for it. Softer, more like the quailing lady I had tried to pretend she is.

“I suppose it would be a stupid question to ask if you’re alright,” I say quietly. For a moment, she doesn’t respond at all and I’m just about to worry she’s shutting down again when she breathes a little sigh and catches a hand on the doorframe.

“I don’t suppose I could sell an ‘I’m fine’ at this juncture, huh?”

She doesn’t quite manage a smile for the weak joke, but I try for one of my own. “I could pretend to buy it, if you really want. Not to brag, but I’ve been told I do a very good job at pretending to be oblivious.”

Nalissa looks down and shakes her head, but there’s a slight smile tugging at the corners of her lips now. “So I saw,” she says wryly, then blows a fallen strand of hair out of her face and looks at me more seriously. “That seems like it could have gone better, back there. I… wasn’t exactly at my most useful. I’m sorry about that.”

“What? No, don’t be silly.” I shake my head in frustration and turn to glare at the armor stand in the corner. My own armor bears no Grey Warden sigils now, but I remember bursting with pride the first time I wore a griffon on my chestplate. Is it selfish of me to react so strongly to the idea that the Warden-Commander might have wanted her to do the same? What would I say if it’s what she _wants_?

As if she can read my thoughts—Maker’s breath, but she’s so much better at that than I am—Nalissa says quietly, “You seemed so _angry_.”

I glance over my shoulder at her, still framed in the doorway, still looking small and tired and heart-achingly beautiful despite it all. She _would_ make a good Warden, my Nalissa. She has that strength of both body and will that they look for in recruits. But the idea of her risking the Joining, that even if it didn’t take her, someday the Calling would, makes it feel like the air is suddenly too thick to breathe. After everything she’s endured, it’s simply asking too much.

And it would take her away from me, which is… something that I’m no longer sure I could bear.

Because I don’t quite know how to say any of that, and because I’m a tiny bit ashamed of myself for just how furious I let myself become, I busy my hands and pretend interest in inspecting my armor while I organize my thoughts. Dante’s claws click toward me on the stone, but I pay it no heed. At last I ask slowly, “Do you know what he was suggesting? What being a Grey Warden means?”

“I… suppose not, if it made you so upset.”

I hesitate, still very aware of where we are and what I should not say where there are Warden ears to overhear. “To become a Warden… the Joining itself can kill you. And if it doesn’t, the order becomes your life. Which is fine, if you’re like me and didn’t have an old one to go back to. Or for criminals, thieves, bandits—the Wardens take them too, and for them it’s sort of an atonement, I suppose. But for you… It involves severing all ties to who you are, renouncing all claim to lands and titles. You couldn’t be lady of Highever anymore; you couldn’t have any claim to your father’s teyrnir. Wardens aren’t allowed to seek political power. You couldn’t be…”

When I trail off, Nalissa’s voice picks up the thought from just behind me. I hadn’t heard her approach, but she must be only a few steps away as she half whispers, “I wouldn’t be allowed to marry you, you mean.”

I flinch inwardly at the words spoken so plainly. I don’t realize I do it outwardly too until her hand reaches down to pull mine away from the armor stand. My fist is curled around a corner of the faulds, bending the shape of the leather and straining the plate underneath, but I release it under her touch. It’s like the anger and fear start to drain away as her hand covers the back of mine and when I look up, she’s so close I can count every speck in her sea-green eyes.

“You thought he meant to take me away from you,” she realizes, and her fingers curl into my hand, squeezing it tightly.

My throat seems suddenly too tight, and I swallow thickly before I can speak again. “The Wardens are important. I’ve never stopped supporting them, even when Sereda broke all the rules and made me king and I had to leave. But that… if they conscripted you, I couldn’t forgive it. Or myself, for bringing you here.”

“You won’t have to,” she promises, and the quiet confidence in her voice is as calming as her touch. I’m not sure if she even knows what the right of conscription is, but just the look on her face is enough to tell me she would fight it if Caron tried.

So far in my life, people have only ever fought to be _rid_ of me. That there exists someone who would fight to stay by my side instead, that it’s Nalissa and she would make the attempt even as exhausted and vulnerable as she is now, makes me feel electric with happiness. I’ve never wanted anything, I think, as much as I want her safe and happy and with me forever.

Is that what love means?

I’ve been very careful not to touch her, just in case, since she flinched at my hand on her shoulder. Even though right now there are few things I want more than to hold her to me and breathe in the scent of her skin and remind myself I haven’t lost her. But when she rises on her tiptoes to kiss me, my control cracks.

My hand in hers twists to twine her fingers with mine, and when she doesn’t resist, tugs her gently toward me. Her free hand catches on my chest and I pause, loosen my grip, waiting to see if she means to push me away. We’re both still for a moment; maybe she’s trying to decide whether to pull away, but her lips stay solidly on mine. I open my eyes a crack, just to see if I can read her expression enough to brace myself and not look disappointed if she decides she needs to, and find her looking up at me.

The intensity of her gaze is almost staggering. I’ve thought before that it’s almost like she can read my mind just by looking at me, but now it really feels like she’s trying. I only have the presence of mind to hope that whatever she sees is what she wants to find before her eyes close slowly.

Suddenly her hand on my chest is at the back of my head, drawing me down to her and sealing my mouth more firmly against hers. A short breath of surprise escapes me and then suddenly her chin tilts and her tongue flickers over my bottom lip. When it darts past my teeth and rolls lightly, temptingly, against my own, a sound I don’t think I’ve ever quite made before gutters from my throat.

My hand presses hard against her back, clenches in the fabric of her tunic, crushes her against me in an unspoken desire that she not pull back and _definitely_ not stop doing that. Nalissa makes a breathy sort of humming sound that might be approval and circles my tongue with her own, then draws it feather-light along the length in a way that, coupled with her fingernails raking through the back of my hair, makes me see stars against the backs of my eyelids.

The electric thrum she so often sparks in my chest seems to be spreading, like lightning and fire boiling in my belly and even lower. I freeze in place, gripped by the sudden realization that my hand has somehow found its way under the hem of her tunic to the small of her back, and it is by no means the only part of me that’s responded entirely without permission. My trousers now seem much too tight, and there’s no way she can’t tell, as close as we are.

Yet though she draws back slightly to break the kiss, Nalissa doesn’t actually pull away from me either. Her hand slides down to the back of my neck and she looks up at me again, a little more cautiously this time. “Too much?” she asks, and when I can’t seem to string together enough words for an answer, she nods and moves her hand to my shoulder instead, dropping back down onto her heels again. “I’m sorry. I was… caught up in the moment, but that’s no excuse.”

It takes me a moment to make sense of what she means, and even when I think I do, I’m still a little confused. “You thought you were making _me_ uncomfortable?”

She hesitates, a little furrow appearing between her brows. “Was I not? You stopped so suddenly, I assumed…” Her eyes search my face, and seeing as it currently feels like my face is on fire, I’m going to guess it’s my blush that gives it away. “Are you embarrassed? Why… oh.”

I clear my throat awkwardly, excusing my hand from her back to run my fingers through my hair and take the chance to avert my eyes. “I, ah, didn’t mean to… lose control of myself, or…”

“You did no such thing,” she says firmly, and I yield to the gentle pressure of her thumb against my jaw and look back toward her. Her eyes are serious and her tone reassuring, even if what she’s saying is a little bit mortifying. “There’s nothing wrong with being aroused, Alistair. I’d be a little worried if you weren’t at all, actually. But what’s important is knowing where you draw your line, and where the other person draws theirs, and sticking to that. And isn’t that what you did?”

I don’t answer, mostly because I’m not sure I’ve drawn any line so much as been afraid I’d crossed one. I’ve not even thought about it before, not—not _seriously_. I’ve had… stray thoughts of her, in… certain ways, things that the sisters who raised me probably would have slapped me and sent me to pray without supper for thinking. But Nalissa doesn’t seem to think the same way at all, and I don’t know exactly how to respond to receiving encouragement instead of shame.

There’s a sharp rap on the doorframe, and we both look up at the same time. One of the recruits from yesterday is standing in the doorway, and gives me a cautious bow. “Sire—er, Warden Theirin. Commander says you’re expected in the armory. Says you’ll need fitted for proper armor for your mission tomorrow, ser.”

Nalissa cocks an eyebrow and mutters, “Better than from the royal armory? My, but he does have a high opinion of himself, doesn’t he?”

I catch myself before I laugh, but it’s a close thing. Then I realize the rest of what the recruit said. “Tomorrow? He’s sending me out _tomorrow_?”

“First light, he said, ser. We really should go, or the smith will be upset.”

“Duty calls,” Nalissa says with a soft sigh, squeezing my hand and then letting go. “Go on, then. Dante and I’ll be here when you return.”

But when I come back from the armory, brand new set of Warden heavy armor in tow, I find Wynne waiting on me as well. Her ship departs in less than an hour, she says, and Nalissa and I escort her to the docks to say goodbye. I’m just glad we don’t run into Nathaniel Howe again.

Nalissa wakes me gently in the dark before dawn, and I try to pull her back into bed and continue to sleep. She counters me with a chuckle and a threat to have Dante drag me out of bed next, and despite her snarky comment about Grey Warden armor being no better than my own, helps me fasten on my breastplate over the rest of my gear. When she steps back to examine the effect, there’s something about the curve of her smile that makes my ears burn.

“I have to admit, I’m a little conflicted. I can’t decide if the Wardens have a point with this whole blue and silver motif, or if you just look handsome in anything.”

Aaand just like that, my whole face is bright red too. “What? Me? No, I… you—you think so?”

Nalissa hooks a finger in one of the buckles at my chest, using it as leverage to pull me down into a short kiss. “I know so.” The look in her eyes gives me butterflies in my stomach until she sighs softly and turns toward the door. “But we should go. Something tells me the _Warden-Commander_ won’t take it well if we’re late.”

I catch her hand and pull her back half a step to press a kiss to her temple. “You’ll be brilliant. You always are.”

“Easy for you to say. You won’t have a hundred men staring at you like an idiot if you trip up.”

“Mm, no, you’re right. I’ll remember that while I’m hiking through the mud and looking for darkspawn.”

Nalissa laughs before saying, “Point taken. Be safe, alright? The commander won’t be happy if I have to take over his keep and order everyone out to save you.”

“Somehow I don’t doubt that you could.”

Her smile as we separate gives me a warm, happy feeling that lasts all the way until I report to the barracks and find that my team on this scouting mission consists of a rather standoffish-looking elven mage who somehow manages to remind me vaguely of Morrigan and none other than Nathaniel Howe. The elf huffs at me for being late, despite the fact that dawn hasn’t yet broken, which only reinforces my first impression. Nathaniel frowns at me but doesn’t speak at all, so this is definitely going to be a fun little trip.

I don’t think to ask where we’re headed until we’re already outside the city and heading south. The elven woman answers that we’re headed for a mining village I don’t recognize the name of on the outskirts of the Bannorn.

“It’s on the Hafter River,” Nathaniel explains at my blank look, and I nearly stumble to a stop.

“Hafter River?” I repeat, staring after him. “That’s at least a day’s journey from Amaranthine!”

The mage snorts. “Did no one tell you this is a _reconnaissance_ mission? And here I thought Emile without a sense of humor.”

“Oh, he has a sense of humor alright,” Nathaniel mutters. “He set us a task any recruit could manage with the blighted king in tow, didn’t he? A fine joke, if I’ve ever heard one.”

I want to object that I’m not prepared for a lengthy trip, that it’s foolish to continue without more supplies, but the others haven’t even stopped to wait for me to catch up. And, I think as I grind my teeth angrily, my refusal and return is probably exactly what the Warden-Commander wants.

Still, I worry about Nalissa, alone in the keep if anything goes wrong. I fret that she has no idea how long I’ll be gone. _I_ don’t even know how long I’ll be gone. Most of all, I want to throttle Caron for arranging this and demand to know just what game he’s playing.

My only solace as we trudge through the mud I’d predicted in a very stiff silence is that at least Caron had the foresight to make sure Nathaniel Howe wouldn’t be in attendance while Nalissa is armed and on edge.

* * *

I pause to take a deep breath before I step out onto the training field. I need a level head, no nerves to get in the way, but that’s a difficult thing to ask of myself after yesterday. It won’t help to doubt my own ability, but what if…

No, I tell myself firmly, cutting off my own train of thought. Rendon Howe is dead and I will not allow his blighted ghost any power over me. So I straighten my spine, pat the hidden pouch of knives at my belt for comfort, and march onto the field. Unsurprisingly, I’m far from the first to arrive.

Warden-Commander Caron smiles at me as I approach his training group like he didn’t just threaten to throw me out of the city less than a day ago. It’s almost friendly on the surface, but I recognize the look in his eyes. He’s sizing me up, trying to pinpoint my weaknesses, the same way I do with opponents. Unfortunately for him, I’ve been practicing hiding mine away since I was ten years old.

“Lady Cousland! How kind of you to agree to join us today!”

I want to glare at him for his carefully disguised sarcasm, but I know better. So I smile and clasp his forearm in greeting as if this was some secret between friends we’d been planning this whole time. He looks surprised at the strength of my grip, and I smirk inwardly but keep my curated smile in place. “Thank you for inviting me,” I answer with nod of my head as if I had been given any choice in the matter.

“Men, this is Lady Nalissa Cousland,” Caron says as he turns to the assembled Grey Wardens. “She’ll be sparring with us today and then if she’s half the blade she’s said to be, she’ll take over morning drills for a while.”

A murmur rolls through the ranks; boots shift back and forth, and sideways looks are given. I swear this man is trying to test my patience, but I give him only a sharper smile. “Any other surprise conditions, Warden-Commander Caron?” I ask quietly enough that the rank and file can’t overhear. “Here I thought you wanted my help, not an opportunity to grandstand.”

“That title is meant for the order; Emile is perfectly fine, for you,” he says with a flourishing bow. His name is as ostentatiously Orlesian as he is, and instantly I decide I don’t care for either. “And of course I do. But do you expect every Warden here to respect your ability if you can’t even hold your own for a few minutes?”

“Oh, I doubt it will take a few minutes,” I assure him, and his smile turns into a grin that I very much want to wipe off his face. “Shame your men don’t trust your word enough for that, though. Any knight of Highever would take mine without question.”

“Is that so?” Caron asks, raising his eyebrows. And then for whatever reason, he turns back toward the assembled soldiers and shouts, “Hendrick!”

There’s another wave of muttering, then a burly man with a dark beard steps forward. “Aye, Commander Caron?”

“You were a knight of Highever, were you not?”

“Er, a decade ago, commander, but aye,” says the man slowly, and Caron’s smile broadens as he looks over his shoulder at me. I don’t remember the last time I’ve wanted to stab someone for sheer personal irritation, but I think Emile Caron might win the honor.

“So would you say Lady Cousland here is a proficient fighter? That her training will benefit the Grey?”

Hendrick shifts uncomfortably, and I allow a little of my irritation to creep to the surface in the form of narrowing my eyes at Caron. “Really? I don't even know this man!”

“You did say _any_ knight of Highever, my lady, did you not?”

I think if this man says “Did you not?” one more blighted time, I might start throwing daggers. Meanwhile, Hendrick is looking back and forth between us uncertainly, no doubt weighing his commanding officer against the daughter of a teyrnir to which he once swore an oath. I suppose I should be pleased he’s even bothering to hesitate.

“The lady was twelve when I left her father’s service, commander,” Hendrick begins slowly, and I’m just preparing to cast a dirty look at Caron and accept his terms when the older man goes on, “But by that time, she could already hold her own against knights with years of training. I have seen her disarm the bann of Blythe Creek in one strike and lead a group of squires in a coordinated assault that… _incapacitated_ two knights on duty.”

I look at the former knight in surprise, see the humor twinkling in his eyes, and it’s only then that I recognize him. My brother’s favorite story about nine-year-old me organizing the squires to assault the armory guards for my daggers—that’s the one Hendrick is describing. Because though he was younger and beardless at the time, he was one of the knights on post.

“So yes,” he concludes with a respectful half bow. “I believe Lady Cousland can likely teach us all a few things by now.”

Warden-Commander Caron has a flush creeping up his neck and his smile has vanished into his goatee. I don’t know how much of that praise I’d rightly earned as a cocky adolescent, but I give Hendrick a grateful smile. Caron nods sharply and snaps, “Yes well, thank you for your vote of confidence, Warden. That’s a lofty estimation of the lady indeed. In that case, Lady Cousland, what say you to a warm-up match with _me_?”

I arch an eyebrow at him, and he crosses his arms across his chest at me in return. It’s the same stance he took against Alistair yesterday, and I recognize it for the challenge that it is. Hendrick’s unexpected praise bruised his ego, and he thinks to regain it by either forcing me to back down or beating me himself to prove his own superiority. Well, I’ll just have to see what I can do about that.

“Of course, Emile,” I agree with a smile, and with no small amount of satisfaction, I watch a muscle in his jaw twitch. I can almost _see_ him regretting giving me leave to use his given name. What he had meant as a dismissal of my non-Warden status has inadvertently given me a verbal advantage.

As we enter the sparring arena, I note with some surprise that he chooses two blunted daggers from the weapons rack just as I do. It’s uncommon in Ferelden for those of noble blood to choose to train with daggers, and I wonder if it’s the same in Orlais. Perhaps Caron carries such a chip on his shoulder because he was a commoner in his homeland. A half-Fereldan commoner, if what he said yesterday is to be believed, in a country where those things are even more important than in Ferelden. I could almost feel sympathetic for him if he didn’t insist on being such a bull-headed prick.

Caron isn’t especially tall, but when he approaches the center of the ring to bow, I feel smaller than I should. It’s his armor, I think, making him seem more impressive while I square up across from him with only a tunic, leggings, and boots to my name. I’ve wrapped my hands and wrists for grip in lieu of gloves, which doubtless makes me look more like a cutpurse than a trained fighter. Yet somehow, I get the feeling none of that is going to make him make the mistake of underestimating me. No, his eyes say this will be a real match long before his blades do.

Quite expectedly, Caron strikes first. He tests my guard with a strong overhead slash, then my speed with a series of follow-ups to each side and one low strike aimed for my thigh. When I parry them all and push him back with a sweep of both blades, he circles back to reset, his eyebrows ever so slightly higher. I wonder if it’s surprise or if I’ve finally won a mote of respect.

The second assault is both faster and harder, an attempt to _break_ my guard rather than test it. But however waiflike I may look in an overlarge tunic with no armor to speak of, I fought tooth and nail for my strength back after Fort Drakon and I won it. And when he makes the mistake of stabbing with his right dagger while his left side is still out of position from my last deflection, I turn the blade and force him to the left. He retreats quickly, but not before I land a stinging whack just above his elbow with the pommel of one dagger.

The strike hits a nerve, and Caron very nearly loses his grip on his own dagger. A wild whoop goes up from somewhere in the crowd, and several people clap. To my surprise, the Warden-Commander doesn’t actually look upset, just impressed against his will as he shakes out the arm.

“Not bad,” he admits as he raises his weapon again.

“Nor you,” I respond politely, and the murmurings from the men watching seem to agree.

“Not a match point, however,” he says firmly. “We continue.”

And so we do, the duel becoming more and more elaborate as it goes on. I’m not overly used to fighting men as quick on their feet as I am, and without that advantage, the match drags on until I’ve landed a glancing blow to his other forearm and he’s managed to slap the flat of his blade against my shoulder and again to my shin. The men watching have begun to gasp and cheer like they’re watching an actual tournament match, though I don’t have the attention to spare to find who they’re rooting for.

For all intents and purposes, I think as a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead, we’re entirely too evenly matched. He leads with his right, that’s clearly his natural hand, but that small tell gives me little to work with when his left is just as quick if not quite as deft. This will come down to endurance, not speed or skill.

Caron swings wide, trying to clip the side of my face, and I roll under the dagger, dragging my dull blade along the side of his greaves as I pass. We’ve long stopped pausing to count grazes, so he whirls immediately and stabs down, trying to pin me before I can change direction, but I haven’t taken my eyes off him so I see it coming. Mid-roll, I kick up so hard only my shoulders remain on the ground, slamming the ball of my foot into his bracer and knocking the blade off course. I use the momentum to flip all the way over, away from him, and he staggers long enough for me to regain my feet.

I move to wipe a spot of either sweat or blood off my brow before it can run into my eye, and he lunges while my hand is distracted. I slash up with my free dagger, which he dodges, and then drop for a leg sweep, which forces him to backstep. As I rise, he slashes down again, and I whirl to the side on one heel. But his dagger catches in the back of the overlarge tunic, jerking me back, and I have to turn the fall into a full-body roll to get out of the reach of his second blade.

It’s as I’m pushing myself back to my feet, daggers flat in my palms in case he tries to rush while I’m down again, that I realize something is wrong. An unnatural hush has fallen around the edges of the arena, and Caron himself is staring at me, frozen, as I stand. I run a mental check, trying to feel past the battle high to see if I’ve been injured somehow, when I realize one sleeve of my tunic has slipped low, past my shoulder. I glance down and see that the thin fabric has ripped when I wrested myself away from Caron’s dagger, and it’s not just my sleeve that’s slipping. The tunic has torn from my left shoulder down to my belt, and it hits me like a lightning strike that I can feel the chill morning air against the sweat on my back.

Forgetting for a split second what I’m supposed to be doing, I scramble with my right hand to hold the back of the tunic together, but the looks I’m getting tell me it’s entirely too late. Everyone within twenty yards has already seen the patchwork of scar tissue as I tumbled through the dirt.

It’s embarrassment that hits me first, like a wave knocking the wind out of me and turning my face bright red. Then suddenly I’m _furious_ , that these men I don’t even know think they can judge me, that this Orlesian bastard would drag this farce on for so long when it’s already clear I can fight, and I can feel my expression hardening in rage but for once, I don’t care. Emile Caron is an overbearing, overconfident windbag and I’m going to knock some of the hot air out of him.

I launch myself at him like a cannonball, and he barely gets his daggers up to counter me in time. He crosses his blades to absorb the force, then shoves me back before I can extricate one, his expression now stony and unreadable. He strikes hard with his right, but I know it’s coming because it’s _always_ his right first, and I block the follow-up from his left with both daggers slamming hilt-first into his forearm. A hiss slips past his teeth, but he doesn’t buckle; admittedly, he’s _slightly_ stronger than I’d expected.

I have to duck when his right dagger swings for the back of my neck, and I can feel it nearly catch on my braid on the way down. Still he insists on trying to stab down after me, and this time I counter by hooking my boot around his ankle and pulling hard. He loses his balance and aborts the attack in effort to regain it, but I follow through with the flat of the dagger and the full weight of my palm against his chest. He topples, throwing one arm out to break his fall but keeping one dagger ready to ward me off.

It’s his right, and I knew it would be. And that’s why as he lands flat on his back, I’m on his left with the tip of a training dagger positioned just under the steel breastplate emblazoned with a griffon rampant. His left dagger is turned, ready to defend, but a half second too late.

There’s one brief moment of silence broken only by Caron’s huff as he drops his head back against the ground and goes still. Then the Wardens gathered around us _erupt_ , shouting and clamoring and laughing as one. I flip the dagger and stand slowly, looking around at them all. Most are shouting about the match, and a couple are surreptitiously passing a handful of sovereigns to a neighbor, and I think I even spot Alistair’s friend Oghren in the crowd. But still there are those who are only staring seriously, if a little awkwardly, at the gap in the back of my borrowed tunic.

I can feel the accusations of weakness in those looks as clearly as if they were spoken, and it burns more than the strain on my still-healing left side. I have not survived this long to be looked upon with pity, but I refuse to try to cover the scars again and give any credence to their thoughts. So I roll my shoulders and offer a hand to Caron to pull him back to his feet. He’s so surprised, he actually lets me.

“I will not stand for attempts to be made a fool of again,” I tell him, quietly but deadly serious, a tone I learned from my father and perfected along with my mother’s scathing stares. He’s receiving both of them from inches away, but though he looks back at me gravely, does not flinch. “You will acquire armor for me, armor that _actually fits_ , before I will train with your men again. And the next time, I do expect to actually train them. Those are _my_ terms, Warden-Commander.”

For the second time, Caron surprises me by nodding a simple agreement. Perhaps I’m wrong, but I do think I see a glint of respect in his dark eyes. It makes it irritatingly hard to continue to blindly hate him.

“I’ll send the blacksmith to your room later today, Lady Cousland,” he says, and I nod as well before turning to march out of the arena. Even though it’s only the back of the tunic that’s torn and that’s certainly far from indecent, the scars make me feel exposed and I have to focus on projecting confidence as I walk away.

Maybe I’m not the only one, because before I’m quite out of earshot, I can hear Caron shouting, “Dismissed!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, now that the posturing and establishing rapport is out of the way, I _swear_ you get to see some of Emile's actual, non-frustrating traits going forward. XD Hopefully a little bit of his tact is visible between the lines for you here too.


	27. Eyes in the Dark

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I know it's not the hugest achievement at only around 100K words, but I realized after posting the previous chapter that this is officially the longest fic I've ever actually published. And I'm still excited to work on it and post new chapters, so that makes me pretty freaking happy. :)

Fanning is barely large enough to even be called a village, which if I had to guess is probably why I hadn’t heard of it before now. Velanna describing it as a “mining village” also seems a little… optimistic, to say the least. From what I’ve gathered from the one farmer willing to talk to us, it was more of a forced labor camp during the Orlesian occupation and the mine has stood abandoned ever since. It’s only recently that the local bann had the idea to reopen the mine, and the villagers started to find signs of the darkspawn taint and what the farmer describes only as “eyes in the dark.”

“I have to admit, I didn’t miss this part of being a Warden,” I mutter as we head underground.

“What did you miss, exactly?” Velanna wonders idly as she examines a wall of the mine in the green light from her staff. “All the best parts stick with you, I imagine—or do you not still dream of the horde on feather beds and silk pillows?”

“It gets a little better the farther you are from them,” I admit. “Sadly I’ve yet to find the specific golden embroidery pattern that blocks them out completely.”

Nathaniel snickers, then turns it into a cough. I assume he’s made up his mind not to like me already, and doesn’t want to jeopardize that by admitting I’m hilarious. And after I kept him from taking a throwing knife between the eyes or the ribs only yesterday, too. I really will never understand nobility.

Another few minutes of walking, and I stop them both with my torch thrust out to one side. “Do you feel that?” I whisper, and when they both look at me blankly, I shake my head and check again that I’m not crazy. There’s definitely something at the edge of my awareness, something blighted but too far for me to get a good idea what it is.

“The villagers were right,” I decide, pulling my shield off my back just in case. Velanna’s a mage and Nathaniel an archer, so I step forward to take point, carrying the torch at the ready like a sword. Darkspawn aren’t the biggest fans of fire, so it should make a good enough offensive surprise until I can draw my blade.

After a moment, I can hear Nathaniel and Velanna start muttering behind me, but I pay them no mind. Darkspawn senses don’t _get rusty_ ; as far as I’ve seen, they only get more refined. If they can’t feel whatever it is down there in the dark, it’s because their senses are undeveloped, not because mine are wrong.

Maker, I hope it isn’t a ogre.

The other two fall silent after a while, and I can only assume that means we’re getting close enough for them to feel it too. But the closer we get, the more confused I am. Whatever it is seems… vague? Not as clearly identifiable as a genlock or even an ogre, but definitely something corrupted. Sometimes I swear it even bubbles and separates and…

“Maker’s blood,” I groan as the realization hits me. “It’s blighted _spiders_.”

Nathaniel shoots me a look somewhere between confused and disdainful. “Are you trying to tell me we’re in a mine and you just remembered you’re afraid of spiders?”

“Wh— _no_!” I sputter in disbelief. “I’m saying what we’re sensing down there is spiders!”

Velanna too just looks at me like she thinks I’ve hit my head on something. “Are… you saying they put spider ichor in your Joining chalice, or that you were bitten by a particularly intelligent one and now—”

“Oh for the love of Andraste, _no_! I’m saying it’s actual, blighted-by-the-darkspawn-corruption giant spiders! Like in Ortan Thaig!”

Velanna and Nathaniel exchange looks, and he says slowly, “That doesn’t sound so bad.”

“Clearly, you’ve never been to Ortan Thaig,” I mutter. “They _eat_ darkspawn that wander too far from the horde. They’re twice as big and five times as venomous. Oh, and they spit acid.”

“Lovely,” Velanna sighs, conjuring a ball of flame in her palm in addition to the light on her staff.

But it’s still a long way down, and before long she lets the flame flicker out to conserve mana. I’m not sure if trekking through the dark knowing you’re looking for giant, corrupted spiders is better or worse than not knowing, but by the time we make it down the last shaft and the ichor and webs start coating the cave walls, I like to think we would have figured it out anyway.

Then the glowing eyes start blinking at us from the darkness, and I see exactly what the farmer meant. It’s creepy, sets of eight eyes peering out of the shadows and then skittering away, even knowing what they are. Maybe especially knowing what they are.

“I don’t think there’s a queen,” I decide, though I’m not quite ready to feel relieved just yet. “So they must have come up from deeper underground, looking for food. But I count… fifteen.”

“Oh good, so it’s only five to one odds,” Nathaniel snarks, and Velanna smirks at him.

“What was it you were you saying yesterday, about how any recruit could handle this mission?”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to thank Emile for his foresight if we aren’t spider chow by the end of the day.”

“They’re circling,” I interrupt, turning with the torch to illuminate the shadows to Velanna’s right. Eighteen eyes glow in the firefight and then sink back into the darkness. “They’ll swarm, if you let them. Whatever you do, don’t let them knock you on your back.”

“So like wolves,” Nathaniel reasons, turning with his own torch to cover Velanna from the other side. “Huge wolves with eight legs and venom.”

“And acid spit,” I remind him.

“Right, who could forget about the acid spit?”

“Just stay still,” Velanna says quietly, her eyes narrowed. “Don’t charge in like a fool and—”

“Down!” I order, leaping back to the left. There’s a wet thunk and a hissing sound as acid drips off my shield. Only the hissing doesn’t stop, and now seems to be coming from all around us.

“I think you’ve made them angry,” Velanna says rather blandly for someone that almost just had her face melted off. And sure enough, the hissing turns into the clicking of far too many pincers, and then it’s like the dark starts to move toward us, the firelight glistening off of hairy black carapaces and hungry eyes.

Before I can move again, an explosion of flame bursts to life in the middle of the largest group, sending at least a half dozen of them into writhing fits on the floor. Another group starts to charge from my right, and I drop the torch as I draw my sword, kicking the brand into their midst and sending them scattering away from the fire. I cut one down as it flees, and when another tries to tackle me, I knock it back with my shield and drive the blade through its middle. A third heads in my direction, but doesn’t make it within ten feet of me before it’s struck by a fireball that sends it flying. Perhaps Velanna was more grateful than she let on.

It seems easier, somehow, than Ortan Thaig, and that’s probably saying something considering Shale was happily squashing the creatures with us back then. But I think the closer quarters actually work in our favor, giving us the chance to fight back to back without anything swooping down on us from above. At least, until the swearing starts when one of Nathaniel’s arrows glances off the shell of one especially large spider, who seems to have eyes only for the archer. He backsteps, slips on the green-black ichor pooling of one of the vanquished creatures, and falls. I can hear the crack as he lands hard on one elbow, and his bowstring goes slack.

Velanna’s back is turned, occupied roasting two more of the creatures with her magic, and without a thought, I leap in for another shield bash before it can overwhelm them. This thing must be built much sturdier than the others, because it doesn’t fly back into a tangle of legs like its fellows; it hisses angrily, then I swear it _glares_ at me over the top of my shield. _Morrigan?_ I wonder reflexively, and before I can even laugh at the absurd thought, the spider has overwhelmed my guard and what feels like the weight of a boulder is crashing down on my chest.

Fortunately, all that templar training seems to have taught me something, because I keep my grip on my sword. _Un_ fortunately, it’s pinned under one of the spider’s legs and I don’t have the leverage to pull it free. I do manage to bring my shield up, which keeps the thing from taking my head off with those pincers, but smacks me hard in the face under the force of its attempt to do just that.

A fireball explodes on the other side of my shield and the spider clicks madly as it redoubles its effort to bite through the steel barrier and into my face. I mean to say I don’t think that worked, I really do, but for whatever reason, it comes out as, “I think you’ve made it angry!”

Velanna snaps something in elven that’s probably an insult and that I probably deserve. Then another arrow strikes the creature just on the leg pinning down my sword, and as it hisses away from the annoyance, I free the blade. I have to move my shield to thrust upward with the sword, and I time it mostly right; the spider shrieks as I impale it through the middle, and it only manages to gore the buckle off the left side of my breastplate instead of my head off my neck. Then, because there wasn’t _enough_ assorted ichor and viscera all over everything already, the blighted thing _explodes_. I stare at the empty air above me for a moment, stunned into silence, until Nathaniel breaks into a laugh and Velanna says simply, “Well, _that_ worked.”

I pull myself back onto my feet and sweep the area, but it appears the spiders saved the worst for last. Still, for good measure, I retrieve my torch and start looking for a sign of whatever hole they used to crawl up from the Deep Roads while Velanna tends to Nathaniel’s elbow.

“I’m no Anders, but I think that will set you right,” she says as the glow of healing magic fades.

“Well, thank the Maker for that,” Nathaniel mutters, flexing his arm. “I thought I’d made it worse, saving His Majesty here.”

“Oh, don’t worry, you did, but I fixed it anyway,” Velanna assures him with a smirk, and I shoot them a look over my shoulder.

“Hey, I saved you first!”

Nathaniel grunts noncommittally, and says nothing else until we’ve filled the crevice the spiders crawled out of with rubble, lit the webs on fire for good measure, and escaped to the surface. To my dismay, it’s already dark out by the time we leave the mine. Velanna insists on securing us the only two rooms in the village’s tiny inn, and while she’s haggling with the innkeeper, Nathaniel clears his throat to get my attention.

“Thank you, for the rescue back there. It was ungrateful not to say so earlier.”

“No need, it’s all part of the job,” I say firmly. “Besides, I can only imagine what Velanna would have to say about any form of gratitude.”

Nathaniel grins. “Part of the reason I waited until she was distracted, I assure you!”

While I appreciate the gesture, all I can think of is that now it will be another day before I can be back to Nalissa. I suppose I should be grateful, I think with a sigh as I examine the black ichor streaking my armor. She’ll probably kill me when she hears I threw myself at a corrupted spider to save a Howe.

“Worried about that girl?” Nathaniel asks suddenly, and I have to stop and wonder if I’m just that terrible at hiding what I’m thinking.

“Lissa will be fine,” I say as confidently as I can manage. And she will, I know her; she could turn anything to her advantage if she put her mind to it. But that doesn’t stop me from worrying, or apparently from being obvious about it.

“Lissa?” Nathaniel repeats, his eyebrows shooting up. “Lissa _Cousland_?” At my nod, he sighs and puts two fingers to his temple as if he’s come down with a sudden headache. “Well, that explains a few things. Actually, if you’re with her, I think I’m surprised you didn’t let that thing kill me.”

I frown at that, and step a little towards the wall to make sure we’re out of earshot of everyone else. “You don’t think she actually wants you dead?”

Nathaniel gives me the most deadpan look I’ve ever received, and I grew up with chantry sisters. “She threw a knife at me, Alistair.”

“Well, at your father,” I correct him, and he gives me a confused look.

“Did you hit your head when that spider tackled you?”

“She _thought_ you were your father,” I explain, or try to. “For all she knew, you had been in the Free Marches for years. I guess you look a lot like him, and seeing as the keep used to be your father’s, she… ah, she _reacted_.”

For some reason, Nathaniel manages to look _more_ annoyed by that. “By trying to kill him? And I thought the Couslands were supposed to be so much better than my father.”

I don’t understand the bitterness in his voice or the sudden aggression in his stance. What exactly does he expect, for her to embrace her torturer? Stunned, I ask aloud, “You _really_ can’t understand that her first instinct would be to defend herself? After what he did to her?”

Nathaniel crosses his arms, but the anger on his face turns to resignation as he looks away at the wall. “I… know it must have been terrible. Her family being murdered like that. I liked Bryce and Eleanor; they were always good to me. But how is she any different if her first _reaction_ is to murder him back?”

I stare at him for a long moment before it hits me like a giant corrupted spider. “You don’t know.”

“Know what?” he snaps, switching to glaring at me. “How _hard_ it was for _someone like her_ to make it on her own until the Blight was over and she got her damned teyrnir right back?”

His tone has me dangerously close to snapping, so it’s probably not surprising he flinches when I grab a fistful of his gambeson at the shoulder and drag him toward the hall. Both rooms are empty, because Velanna’s still bargaining for them, and I want to be very sure no one else hears what I’m about to say.

“No, what you don’t know is where she spent the Blight,” I hiss, releasing him a little more roughly than is strictly necessary, but he had better be listening if he knows what’s good for him. “After she spent months running from your blessed father and trying to keep him from murdering any more innocent people, his men caught up to her. And she spent half a year locked in Fort Drakon. Sereda was in that dungeon for seven hours and needed a healer before she could carry her shield again. Lissa was a prisoner for _half. A year._ ”

Nathaniel’s jaw moves, but no words come out at first. Finally he manages to ask hoarsely, “My father _knew_ this? Condoned it?”

“He was there,” I snap, then force myself to take a deep breath before I speak again. “I’m not standing here arguing with you about your father being a traitor and a murderer, because there’s nothing to argue. He was, and worse. She felt worse than she already did when Wynne told her it was you she’d tried to attack, you should know that. But if I hadn’t _already_ run him through and it actually had been your father? I _would_ have helped her.”

Needless to say, I get the second room to myself. Even after I finally manage to wash the ichor and spider guts out of my hair, I still can’t sleep, so I spend half the night cleaning my armor instead, thinking only of the morning and leaving for Vigil’s Keep at last.

I miss tangling my hands in Nalissa’s hair to sleep. I miss waking to a kiss and a smile and a playful threat if I fall asleep again. I miss the smell of her skin and the flash of her smile and the freckles across the bridge of her nose. When I finally pass out from sheer exhaustion long after midnight, my subconscious even sees fit to let me dream of her for a few blissful moments before the darkspawn dreams begin.

I’m sure it also goes without saying that it’s a _painfully_ quiet trip back to Amaranthine.

By the time we leave the debriefing room after giving our reports to the Warden-Constable, it’s late enough I know I won’t have to go look for Nalissa anywhere but our room. The door is closed when I arrive, but the bed is empty and at first, I think I was wrong and she isn’t here. But Dante’s stub tail and the entire rest of his body wag furiously toward me in greeting, and when I look up from petting him hello, I realize the room isn’t otherwise empty after all. Slumped over the writing desk, fast asleep with her hair loose all over the tabletop and a long-dry quill in her hand, is Nalissa.

I swear, not even three days away and already I surely must have begun to forget how beautiful she is. Just lying there asleep, hair falling gently across her face, she takes my breath away.

She’s wearing another of those Grey Warden tunics that’s much too big for her, this one with long sleeves rolled up past her elbows, and… Maker’s breath, possibly nothing else. Her feet and legs are bare, braced a little awkwardly under the chair to keep her from slipping, and I find myself following their curves with interest. I consider whether it would be proper to carry her to bed—surely so, it wouldn’t do to leave her at the desk to wake with neck and back aches in the morning—until, just below the hem of the tunic and midway down her thigh, I spot a deep purple bruise.

“Lissa?!” I ask aloud in alarm, and her head jolts off the desk. Somewhere under her tangle of hair there must have been one of her white steel daggers, because she’s gripping it in her left hand as she blinks up at me, still bleary-eyed. And there’s another bruise darkening on her cheekbone.

I swear to the Maker, I don’t care if it was the Warden-Commander himself that laid a hand on her while I was gone, I will _kill him_.

* * *

I’ve been chasing down the man who paid the Crows to kill me, a silent figure in a long cloak, and just knocked him solidly to the ground. I’ve landed half on top of him, one knee pinned into the middle of his spine and the other heel crushing his wrist to the ground. My hand slips under the hood of the cloak, closes around the fabric to pull it back, and even my heartbeat goes silent in anticipation because any second now I’ll finally know who’s responsible for all of this—

Someone shouts my name and I startle, only to find myself not in any alley in Antiva City at all, but asleep on a desk with a sheet of parchment stuck to my face. My dagger is still in my hand though, and I raise it defensively as I blink into the light toward… Alistair?

“ _Alistair_!”

I drop the dagger at once, only vaguely aware as it clatters into something or other on the table, and all but leap at him, my arms wrapping around his neck. He staggers a little and I think I probably surprised him, but I can’t bring myself to care. I’ve been so worried about him, so furious at Caron for telling neither of us how long he would be gone, that all I want to do is assure myself he’s back and safe and isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

“You’re here,” I breathe, and he smells like him plus grassy fields and spring air, and I hope that means he was never in any danger at all.

But his hands push me back gently, one on my hip and the other breaking my grip around his neck, and I look up at him in alarm. Is something wrong? Did _I_ do something wrong? I had thought Caron was being less antagonistic after our duel, but has he found some way to punish Alistair for it?

If he has, I’ll stab him for real, this time.

“What happened?” Alistair asks, and I frown my confusion at him. I wonder if I’m still half asleep and not comprehending everything, because his brown eyes are urgent, worried, and I don’t understand why. “Are you alright?” His thumb brushes my cheek, but it’s not until his other hand moves down from my hip to gingerly touch a sore spot on my leg that I recognize he’s pointing out my bruises.

“I’m fine,” I try to assure him, but his eyes remain serious and I laugh softly at myself. I’ve used that line so many times when I’ve been very _not fine_ that it’s lost all meaning. “No, really this time! Just a few bumps from training, that’s all. But you, are you alright? Oghren was telling me some story about darkspawn in a mine! Was that true? Were you hurt?”

I take his face in my hands, brush back a lock of untrimmed hair curling down toward his forehead, examining him for any hidden injuries. He has a tiny cut above one eye, but it’s been cleaned and is barely noticeable. There’s a dent on his breastplate though, I realize, and it hangs askew with one of the buckles broken. It looks like it’s been wrenched off the chain beneath, the steel severed by something stronger. My fingers dart there, checking for a wound beneath the mail, but he catches my hand and brings it to his lips instead.

“No darkspawn, and I’ve never been better,” he says gently. “I’m back here with you, aren’t I?”

I’m sure my face is burning a little, but I can’t feel it for the warmth in my chest. I don’t know if it’s the words or the softer, lower tone when he says them, but sometimes when Alistair talks like that, I feel like my knees are in danger of melting from underneath me. I wonder if he even knows he does it. Maybe he _is_ doing it on purpose, to distract me so I won’t ask about his damaged armor. I’m still trying to decide if he could be that devious when he gives me that smile—the slow, sweet, slightly uneven one that lights both his face and his eyes. I forget to breathe, and if I controlled my heartbeat, I’d probably forget that too.

“You’re wearing it again,” he whispers, and I can’t even piece together what the words mean until he distracts me from his eyes by tracing his thumb over the back of my fingers.

This time I can feel the heat rising in my cheeks when I realize he’s talking about the engagement ring. I hadn’t _forgotten_ I put it back on exactly but it feels somehow right on my hand, so it was hardly at the forefront of my mind with him here to occupy my thoughts. But the way he looks at me like it’s one of the most important things he’s ever seen makes me feel simultaneously incredibly happy and… a little self-conscious?

“I—well, it—I did tell you I only took it off so I couldn’t lose it on the road,” I try to explain. “And obviously no one’s trying to steal it from me here, and it sort of made me feel a little more like you were here, so—”

The rest of my rambling sentence dies in my throat when Alistair kisses me, turning into a gasp that shudders out sounding surprised but pleased. I swear his mouth is _molten_ against mine, and all the effort I’d put into keeping my knees solidly beneath me is lost as I melt against him like candle wax before a flame. His arms around my back and my waist, and one of mine that’s managed to find its way back around his neck, are all that keep me on my feet.

Until they don’t, until even though I don’t feel myself falling, the bed is beneath my back and _Maker’s breath, he’s still kissing me_. I have the wild thought that maybe I’m still dreaming—I’ve dreamt of him like this before, of his weight settling over me in bed, of his lips tracing adventurous paths along my skin, of what passion and desire might do to those gorgeous eyes—but there was decidedly less armor in those, and his breastplate pressing into my chest is entirely too pointed and uncomfortable to be a dream.

I want it gone, I have the presence of mind to think. Then his tongue passes my lips and I want _all of it gone_ , every stitch of cloth and scrap of leather between us. I want _him_ , his skin against mine and my name on his lips and all night to learn all of the ways he can say it. I want to hear it in a gasp and in a moan. I want to hear it with “I love you” in front of it.

It’s that last one that makes me pause, even though I’ve already undone the remaining buckle on the offending breastplate and torn it off the chainmail cuirass, even though Alistair hasn’t stopped me. My hands turn gentle against his shoulders, run along the curve of his neck, and trace lightly through his hair. I love him, all of his kindness and humor and strength and compassion… and his fears and insecurities too. How could I not, when they’re what first convinced me this strange man my brother wanted me to marry might actually be a decent person?

My lips curl into a smile against his and the kiss slows, becoming more tender than intense, and finally he smiles back at me with affection in his eyes. “I missed you too,” he says softly, one hand cupping my jaw and running a thumb along the side of my face. He kisses me again, this time slowly and softly, and I feel as though I must be catching fire from the inside. “I could hardly sleep without you beside me,” he whispers against my lips.

“I didn’t want to,” I admit, then a bizarre thought drifts into my head and bubbles out of my throat in a short laugh. “Maker, Alistair, are you quite sure you want to go back to Denerim? The regent very nearly lost his mind when my room was moved into the same _hallway_ as yours.”

“The regent can stow it,” he decides promptly, and I decide that I’m starting to like the low, firm way he says it. Then the next thing I know, his lips and nose are trailing feather-light from my jaw down my neck. They aren’t kisses, just a slow movement like he might be trying to decide what my skin smells like, but it makes goosebumps rise on my arms and I go abruptly very still anyway. “I’m still the king, and I say I’m never sleeping without you beside me again.”

Alistair’s breath—and his _words_ —against my neck send a little shiver down my spine that I can’t control. He draws back a little, looks at me curiously, and then a spark of mischief lights his eyes. This time, his lips on my skin are deliberate, and I bite my lip hard but still shudder despite myself.

“You _really_ need to stop that,” I whisper as my nails rake against the back of his head, dimly aware that my own voice is now pitched lower than it was just a moment ago. “Or I won’t be held responsible for my actions.”

He has the nerve to _chuckle_ against my throat before he draws back. Propped up on one elbow above me, a smile tugging at his mouth and his eyes darker than I’ve ever seen them before, he might be the most gorgeous sight I’ve ever seen.

“I’m given to exaggerating, I know, but I’m not this time,” he says quietly, smoothing my hair back as he speaks. “The whole time I was gone, you were all I could think about. If you were safe, if you were worried, if… if you missed me as much as I missed you.”

“Every second,” I answer, my fingertips now dancing through the fine hair at the base of his neck. _I love you,_ beats my heart in my ears, and this time I want to say it. I want to tell him how much I love him and why, name everything that he does, everything he is, that I adore, but it’s _everything_ , and I don’t know where to begin.

“I love you.”

My heartbeat goes suddenly quiet—the whole world goes suddenly quiet, except for the faint sound of a single surprised breath. I look up at him, disbelieving, certain my imagination has gotten the best of me. But he’s watching me with a smile turned tentative and eyes suddenly uncertain, and I realize I _didn’t_ imagine it.

He’s said it before I could.

“I—that was sudden,” he adds, the confidence of only a few moments before vanishing, his hand stilling in my hair. “I didn’t mean to just—to blurt it out, but you… Lissa, you’re everything I’ve ever wanted and everything I never knew I did. And I just kept thinking how stupid it would be if I—if something had gone wrong, and I never had a chance to tell you that. So it’s—it’s okay if you—if that’s not how you feel about me, or—”

“I love you, too,” I interrupt him. He freezes, and I think perhaps it’s his turn to wonder if he’s hearing me correctly, so I go on. “I do love you, Alistair. For a while now, I just… couldn’t quite admit it. I was afraid if I said it, and—and something happened, it would make it worse. Or the Crows would find out and… It would kill me to lose you. You are the most important person left in the world to me. You’re brave, and sweet, and loyal, and just stubborn enough you won’t let me get away with it when I’m being an idiot. And I love you.”

At some point while I spoke, a smile crept onto my lips, because I’m beaming at him when I say it the third time. For a moment, his lips twitch as they spread slowly into a smile, like he still isn’t completely sure he believes what I’ve just said. Then he kisses me, hard, and my hands catch in the back of his collar and in his hair, and his is so tangled in mine I’m not sure if he’ll ever be able to free it. But I eventually have to ask him to anyway, when his armor starts digging into my bare legs.

Alistair apologizes, but he’s still grinning as he climbs off me. And I watch with a smile as the giant dork then struggles to extricate himself from the chainmail and somehow manages to get the breastplate I’d tossed to the floor tangled around one boot. How he can manage to be such a steady presence in a fight, or such a comforting one in general, I can’t quite explain as I smother a giggle into my hand and move to help him. But he is, even if he’s also awkward and adorable, and I love him for all of it.

And he loves me, I think with an indescribable happiness expanding in my chest. He loves me, and I love him.

And so help me Maker, if anyone in Thedas thinks to hurt him, they will have to go through me first.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive the thinly veiled Spiderman joke and ubiquitous swooping reference finally cropping up in the fic. I couldn't help myself. XP


	28. Finding Footholds

Maybe it’s the exhaustion of the unexpected three-day mission, or how little sleep I’d gotten without Nalissa at my side, but I wake actually feeling rested for the first time in days. She fell asleep with her head on my chest like a pillow, and though I seem to have turned toward her in my sleep, she’s still curled against my chest with her face buried in my nightshirt. One of her arms is wrapped around me, and as I brush the hair back from her face, I can’t help but smile.

She’s lovely, and incredible, and she _loves me_. I’ve never heard those words before, not directed at me, until last night. Remembering them in her voice, with my name attached at the end so there can be no mistake, makes me happier than I knew I could be. _She_ makes me happier than I knew I could be.

Nalissa murmurs something in her sleep, too faint and too muffled to make out the words, but they’re not frightened ones. I hope she didn’t have nightmares while I was gone. With no Ilana to talk her down, I can’t imagine how the Wardens would have reacted.

The Wardens, I remember with a start. The sun hasn’t yet risen but the sky through the window is beginning to lighten, and I can’t imagine Caron is a patient man. If she’s expected again today, he’s probably already pacing.

I work her fingers free of my shirt, ignore her mumbled protest, and kiss the back of her hand gently. “Lissa. Lissa, wake up.”

Whatever she says in response is still distorted by sleep and her face against my ribcage, but I’m pretty sure I hear something about the color of Andraste’s chosen undergarments and a bleeding pyre in there, and I have to stifle a chuckle. Quite the blasphemous vocabulary she has when she isn’t trying to be proper and polite.

“Lissa,” I try again. “My dear, are you supposed to be training with the Wardens again today?”

“’m not a deer, _you’re_ a deer,” she grumbles quite clearly this time, and the accusation is so obviously meant to be an insult that I burst into laughter. _That_ rouses her quickly enough.

“Mm? What happened?” Nalissa asks, blinking up at me groggily, and I can only offer a grin as an explanation. Then she looks around, realizes it’s nearly sunrise, and I can watch the panic creep into her widening eyes. She rolls away and out of the bed so quickly I think her feet hit the floor before I’ve even realized she was moving, swearing softly under her breath the whole way.

“I take it you _are_ supposed to be training with the Wardens today,” I observe as I rise. I turn toward the wardrobe, in the general direction of which I had tossed my breastplate after it tried to murder me yesterday, and freeze.

Nalissa has just yanked the overlarge tunic off her head, tossing it aside to destination unknown, and is wearing only smalls beneath. I watch, entranced, as her fingers deftly tie a knot in the back of her breastband, before I turn away with my face burning to collect my armor from the pile I tossed it into yesterday instead. She has her back turned, likely not thinking of my presence at all, or I doubt she would have allowed me to see the scars she tries to hide.

A stray thought flits through my head of what she might have looked like facing me, before the undergarment was properly in place. I shake my head and try to clear it before Sister Agatha’s voice in the back of my mind can start screeching that I’m a lecher.

Is it still lecherous if the woman that keeps wandering into my mind in various states of undress is engaged to marry me? If I love her, and she loves me too? My heart still does a flip at the idea, but yes, I decide, Sister Agatha would definitely still say so. Regardless, such distractions do _not_ help with trying to put on armor, I remind myself firmly. Quite the opposite.

I make very sure every buckle and link of chain is in place before I turn around again, to make sure she’s had time to dress properly. To my surprise, she’s wearing armor of her own, and as I recognize it, I think my heart stops. Warden armor. She’s wearing _Warden armor_.

“Nalissa,” I say sharply, crossing the room in haste. “What is this? What did they do?”

My hands tug at the shoulders of the studded leather gambeson, the blue and silver motif of the order that I was once so proud to wear suddenly _terrifying_ me to see on her. Three days I was gone—Caron could easily have organized a Joining in less time than that. If she took it so recently, I wouldn’t sense her yet. I wouldn’t _know_ unless they told me.

“Wh-what?” Nalissa stammers, and her eyes dart between mine in confusion.

“This armor,” I demand, gripping it more tightly, until the edges of the studs start to cut into my fingers. “Why do you have it? What did they make you do?”

“ _Make_ me do? I’ve been running drills for them in the morning. That’s all they’ve asked, like we agreed.”

“Did he Join you?”

She shakes her head and frowns, looking uncertain. “Caron? We sparred the first day, but—”

“No, a Joining ritual. A chalice—did he have you drink from a chalice? A great silver one with dark liquid inside?”

“What—no,” she objects, and finally I close my eyes and breathe a sigh of relief. Nalissa’s shoulders though remain as tense as a drawn bowstring. “Alistair, what just happened?”

“Nothing,” I answer quietly, leaning my forehead against hers. She hesitates, then reaches up to drape her arms around my neck, and I relent with a sigh. “The Joining is… it’s how Wardens are made. I saw you in that armor, and I thought… I was afraid he had tricked you somehow.”

She kisses me gently, if very shortly, and smiles. “Well, if it helps you feel better, I’m typically not one to accept strange drinks from men I already don’t trust as far as I could throw them.”

“Good, because let me warn you, it tastes _terrible_.”

Nalissa laughs and leads me downstairs by the hand. She only lets go at the door just before we exit to the training field, and pauses to prepare herself. I watch her roll her shoulders and check that her hair is secure in its high ponytail, then take a deep breath like she’s about to dive underwater. It’s a strange experience, watching as she dons the mental armor I spent weeks convincing her she could let go of around me.

When she steps outside, it’s with that proud tilt to her chin and a commanding stride that somehow makes me feel invisible, following in her wake. Caron is nowhere to be seen, I notice. Didn’t she say she sparred with him the first day? I wonder just how that went, for him to agree not to be here. I bet she stomped him, I think with a grin. I really was lucky to get to lose that first match while no one was looking.

And Andraste’s ashes, if Nalissa isn’t _good_ at this. She has the Wardens pair off for practice, then marches up and down between them, rearranging the pairs. It only takes a minute to realize what she’s up to. She’s matching greatswords with dagger users, axe wielders with shieldbearers—pitting speed against reach and defense against power. Everyone has a match-up where they’ll struggle, she says, but struggle is a chance to improve. And I wonder how many of these weapons she’s actually used herself, because she seems to have advice for everyone. When she comes to Oghren and me, we’re no exception.

“Your axe is dual-bladed, Warden Oghren,” she points out with an arched brow.

Oghren grunts and rolls his head to one side, as if trying to crack his neck. “Aye.”

“Yet you only seem to use one blade against a single opponent. If you miss a strike, you dodge and reposition. Habit, I assume. But if you have a opening to bring the other blade to bear, it’s a simple matter to hook it on the edge of an unsuspecting shield. Trust me, shield users do _not_ adapt quickly to having it yanked off their bracers.”

Oghren twitches his moustache in thought, then agrees it’s a sensible suggestion. Nalissa nods and adds, “Do try not to actually break any arms in here though. Save that for the darkspawn.”

“I’ve managed not to break him so far,” Oghren grumbles, and when Nalissa turns to me, she’s wearing her serious face still but there’s a twinkle in her eyes.

“You heard the man, Warden Alistair. He’s coming for your shield. Don’t let him.”

“Fine advice; should’ve thought of that one myself,” I joke, and one side of her mouth curls into a smirk. I find that it makes me want to kiss her in the middle of the practice field.

“I’ve seen you spar,” she points out, neglecting to mention that it’s typically been against her. “Somehow, I really don’t think you need step-by-step instructions.”

Nalissa gives me a wink that makes Oghren snicker, and then her head snaps to something behind me. “Oy, Warden Tarvell! Keep swinging that wide and you’ll disarm everyone _except_ your opponent…”

Oghren eyes her as she leaves and then raises his brows at me. “I always knew you liked being bossed about, but _that_ one could order a dragon to flee and the beast’d probably consider it.”

He gets a chuckle out of me, but _not_ enough of a distraction to catch his axe on my shield, which I’m pretty sure is what he was aiming for. “She can be very persuasive. But she could also probably slay the dragon, if she really put her mind to it.”

“Maybe. After how she handled the boss, most of these blighters would probably follow her to fight one.”

Of course she did, I think a little proudly. She’s _incredible_. I check over my shoulder that she’s still out of earshot, then whisper, “How _did_ that go? She didn’t quite say, except that he never came back after.”

“Little lady’s a sodding acrobat is how it went,” Oghren says, then gives what I can only shudderingly describe as a really low-pitched giggle and adds, “Lucky you. I bet she can do some fun things with those legs.”

“I realize it’s like asking a Revered Mother not to Chant, but could you _not_ be crude? For once? Tell me what she did.”

“What do I look like, a match caller at the Proving Grounds? She danced around all light-footed like she belonged in the circus, knocked him on his ass, and put a dagger to his ribs. Anything fancier than that, you’d have to get someone else to tell you.” I’m just about to sigh and give up when he adds thoughtfully, “But to be honest, I think it was the scars that won her respect more than the dueling.”

“Scars?” I ask curiously.

The obvious answer doesn’t occur to me, because she’s so careful to keep them hidden, so ashamed when they’re spotted. I don’t even _imagine_ he means her scars from Fort Drakon until he mumbles, “You know,” and makes a nervous gesture toward his back like he’s afraid she’ll catch him looking if he’s not quick about it.

That actually does stun me long enough for him to hook his axe under my shield, but I recover quickly enough to cross my sword under the axe head and pin it in place long enough to free my shield. I backstep quickly out of range and give him a serious look. He frowns but gives up the attack.

“What do you mean, _her scars won her respect_? Who saw them? How?”

“Damn near everyone with eyes, I imagine,” he says with a shrug that tells me he has no idea how serious that is. Something of what I’m thinking must show on my face, because he holds up a hand warily. “Now, it was just the _back_ of her shirt that tore. Nobody saw any fun bits. I certainly wouldn’t be standing here telling _you_ if they had, I’d be standing back and waiting for the explosion—”

“Comforting, Oghren,” I say, a little more sharply than necessary, and I receive a scowl for it but I don’t care. “What did she do? She doesn’t let _anyone_ see that, she must have been mortified.”

“For a minute, she tried to cover ’em up again,” the dwarf admits. “Can’t see why. Warriors should be proud of their scars. But then she changed her mind and showed the boss what for, and marched out of the arena like she owns the place.”

I glance over my shoulder at Nalissa again, this time with more appreciation than anything else. I’m not _surprised_ , exactly; that would be the wrong word. My Nalissa is stronger than even she knows she is. But Oghren’s story is a far cry from the girl I met a few months ago, who froze up and nearly broke down at her scars being revealed to just me and Venya, and that has me nearly bursting with pride for her.

The deeper wounds from her imprisonment, I think, may finally be starting to heal too.

* * *

I’ve just dismissed the Wardens and started toward Alistair when I spot him as the crowd clears. My heart kicks into panic mode before I can stop it, but this time I’m prepared enough to force a deep breath and focus. It isn’t Rendon Howe. Rendon Howe is dead, and he never wore his hair that long, and his chin was weaker and his nose more hooked.

Listing the differences helps, a little, but still it takes every ounce of my self-control to keep a straight face. He wasn’t here for drills, and I suppose that makes sense considering he has a bow and quiver over his back instead of a close-range weapon. But that means he’s come at the end of training on purpose, and considering he’s looking straight at me, I don’t really have to guess what that is.

Alistair, sweet as he is, appears at my side while I’m distracted and speaks to me gently. “Lissa? Are you okay?” He keeps his voice low enough that no one else can hear, takes care not to touch me, and I know he’s worried. There are still enough stragglers putting away training weapons and packing up shields that if I lose myself again, it could be very problematic. I nod sharply, the motion maybe a little more jerky than usual, but I keep my spine straight and my eyes level. It is long past time, I think, that I took control of my fear back from Rendon Howe.

“Lissa,” says Nathaniel Howe, and even though the voice is different too, a cold chill runs down my back that I do my best to ignore. “Good morning.”

“Nate,” I answer, crossing my arms to feel more held together. “It’s… been a long time.”

Nathaniel tries for a smile. “Yes. Last we met, you were still a tiny, freckly kid hiding from your tutor and sparring with squires, and now you’re training Grey Wardens. I’m sure the old man’s glad his lessons didn’t fall on completely deaf ears.”

A sudden image of how Aldous’ beard used to twitch as he tried not to smile at my shenanigans strikes an unexpected chord of homesickness in my chest. The old scholar said something very much like that the last time I spoke with him. “I’m sure he would be,” I say, and my words come out a little more clipped than before. “If he hadn’t been murdered in the library with the guests.”

Nathaniel fidgets with one hand on the strap of his quiver, looking exactly as uncomfortable as one would expect from the turn in conversation. “I, ah, meant to speak with you about that. If you have a moment?”

Alistair touches my elbow, his hand warm even through the studded leather. When I glance at him, his eyebrows are pulled low over eyes still watching me with concern. I don’t think he doubts me, he was always far too upset with Fergus for doing that, but he’s _probably_ worried at the prospect of leaving me to a private chat with someone I’ve so recently tried to murder.

I give him a faint smile and a nod, then gently but firmly remove his hand and squeeze it for reassurance. “I’ve got this,” I tell him quietly, purposefully choosing any phrase but _I’m fine_ because I’m fairly certain he doesn’t believe that one anymore. “I’ll meet you at breakfast.”

He hesitates only for a moment, then presses a kiss to my forehead and reminds me in a somewhat louder voice that he’ll be within shouting distance if I need him. He spares only one glance toward Nathaniel as he turns to leave, but it looks very much like a warning. Alistair’s faith in me makes me feel bolstered, and even though I don’t _think_ I need it, that he’s still so ready to defend me makes me feel safer, even as he walks away.

“He really loves you,” Nathaniel says aloud, something like disbelief in his voice as he stares and shakes his head. _So I’ve just realized,_ my mind snarks, but I don’t say it and so he continues on. “I’d assumed it was arranged, him being the king. That he only defended you as the future queen. But you’re _actually_ in love.”

Something about his tone says without words, “That explains a lot,” and I wonder again about the mission Alistair still hasn’t found time to tell me about. But I can’t see any reason to lie, so I admit, “It _was_ arranged. I almost decided to overthrow Fergus and refuse. I’m glad I didn’t.”

The last part comes out sounding surprisingly soft, and I force a cough to cover it, like I might have been losing my voice. It’s the closest I’ve ever come to admitting… _anything_ about how I feel for Alistair, to anyone except him, and even that is so new it makes my heart race just to remember. I’m failing miserably at remaining stoic, I realize. I’m probably blushing, and definitely not completely hiding my smile, and I can’t allow that to be a weakness for someone to exploit.

“Well, I’m… glad for you,” Nathaniel says slowly, but though he seems sincere despite his struggle with the words, he is a _Howe_ , and I’m not sure that I’ll ever trust anyone with that surname again.

Etiquette dictates I should thank him for the sentiment, I know that, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Perhaps that particular lesson Aldous and Mother tried to teach me didn’t stick so well as they would have hoped. So I shift my weight from one foot to the other and ask abruptly, “What is it you want of me, Nate?”

He pauses before answering, looking just as uncomfortable with this entire conversation as I am. Odd, considering he’s the one that sought it. Finally he sighs and gestures hopefully toward one side of the training field, past the few Wardens still inspecting bruises and stowing equipment, and I follow him cautiously away from the wall of the keep.

Nathaniel leans against the wooden fence separating the training grounds from the courtyard proper and stares toward the sunrise instead of looking at me. “I’ve, ah… heard rumors since my return to Ferelden.”

“No surprise there. I’m sure Arl Bryland is already telling people Alistair and I have eloped and are honeymooning in Orlais, dueling grand dukes and winning honor for Ferelden.”

He snorts, then shakes his head. “That does sound like something he would say, but not the rumors I meant.” He looks over his shoulder at me, and despite all the differences I keep trying to focus on, his eyes are the same steel gray as his father’s, and I pull my elbows more tightly to my sides. It’s a poor defense, but it makes me feel a little better. “I’ve heard… disturbing things, about my father. And about you.”

I find that my mouth is turning dry, and I have to swallow hard before I can speak again. “That he tried to murder my entire family and everyone loyal to us? Not rumors.”

“That much Delilah has told me,” Nathaniel admits, and a sense of dread settles in my chest like a terrible premonition. “Whatever… became of him while I was gone, I’ve come to _accept_ that there was more to it than just making the wrong decisions in a war.”

“Good,” I snap, a little more viciously than I meant to, but he doesn’t falter and that gaze is starting to make my hands itch to hold a blade.

“Is it true, that he didn’t kill you intentionally? That he kept you prisoner during the Blight?”

I look away from those chilling eyes, needing to focus on keeping my breathing even. My nails feel like they’re cracking against the metal studs on my upper arms, but I can’t seem to loosen my grip. “I’d really prefer not to talk about that,” I manage to say, but my voice comes out too high and too thin to sound firm.

“Fucking Maker,” Nathaniel swears. I hear the creaking of wood and react on instinct, one hand flitting to the knife pouch at my hip, but his bow isn’t even in his hands. Instead he seems to be trying to wrest one of the fence slats from the post, and judging by the sound, the fence objects. His back is to me again, for which I’m grateful, but still he hisses, “He really did it, didn’t he? It wasn’t just… death as acceptable losses. It was murder. _Torture_. Senseless violence. That’s what he became.”

“He wasn’t called the Butcher of Denerim for nothing,” I whisper hoarsely, and this time when he looks at me, his eyes aren’t so much like his father’s anymore. They’re downcast and regretful, an emotion I never saw Rendon Howe wear.

“ _Why_? What did he possibly hope to achieve?”

He sounds desperate to understand, and as much as it makes me feel sick to think about, I consider the answer. Highever itself wasn’t it; I don’t think it ever really was. I was only ever a means to an end, and chances are Howe only enjoyed hurting me so much because I reminded him of someone else. It isn’t something I should have to try to explain to anyone, but Nathaniel does deserve the truth. And in the end, it’s just another thing his father has forced upon me to deal with.

“I… I think it boiled down to resentment,” I try to reason. It’s difficult to try to apply logic, especially when each revolting memory threatens to pull me in, but I try. “He was angry— _furious_ —with Father. Decades later, and he still blamed him for ‘stealing glory’ at White River. For winning the favor of the king and the freeholders. For becoming a teyrn when H—he only ever became an arl. He thought he deserved everything that was my father’s, so he took it away. At first, I think… I think he only meant to make me beg to die. But then something changed. Loghain started losing supporters and ground, I suppose, but I had no idea. He just swore I would never know peace again until I married his son and handed Highever officially back to Amaranthine.”

Nathaniel gives me a look so near to disgust that I could almost be offended if I wasn’t preoccupied being terrified of my own thoughts. “He wanted to force you to marry me?”

“No,” I correct him, shaking my head. “Thomas. It was always Thomas, until he and Lady Eliane died. Then… then it was him, until he died too.”

“Are you… you’re saying my father tried to torture you into marrying _him_.”

I realize abruptly that my face is stinging in the chill morning air and turn away to dry it discreetly. “He was mad, by that time. More so than before. Grasping at straws, with all his plans coming undone around him. Everyone thought Fergus dead, and me the only heir, and with Loghain’s support failing…”

Nathaniel takes a deep breath and a long exhale before he speaks again. “I didn’t want to believe how far he’d fallen, but the… things I’ve heard, and what they’re all saying about scars, I had to ask. Maker, I’m sorry.”

My fists clench at the mention of those marks, and I give him a piercing look. “Don’t you _dare_. Your father did quite enough to me, Nate. I don’t need your pity, and I don’t need anyone contributing to the rumors I’m—I’m weak or an invalid or—”

“What?” he interrupts, and actually scoffs at me like I’m being ludicrous. “Lissa, not a damn person in this keep thinks you’re _weak_. They’re talking about how you must be stronger than any of them. That you’re a better duelist than Emile—and for the love of the Maker, _do not_ tell him I said that or he will send me on pointless scouting missions twice a week for the rest of my life.”

“I… what?” I stare at him, unable to connect the words with what I’m sure I’ve seen in the eyes of some of these men, but he just shakes his head at me.

“They think whatever happened to you is deplorable, but that’s all. I don’t know what you see when you look in the mirror, but there’s not a Warden who saw that fight that wouldn’t throw down a gauntlet at the first man to call you weak. Emile included. He might be too proud to admit it, but I know him. He was impressed.”

I can’t decide if everything he’s saying is the truth or not, but I appreciate that he says it anyway. So I swallow my own pride and offer the apology I really should have given him when he first approached. “I’m sorry for how I reacted, in the dining hall. I wasn’t in a—I didn’t recognize you—”

Nathaniel holds up a hand to silence me and offers a wan smile. “It’s fine. Your fiancé explained. A little angrily, not that I didn’t deserve it, but it’s what convinced me you probably wouldn’t stab me if I approached slowly enough.”

“Probably not,” I allow, trying for a smile too. I’m probably about as successful as he is. “I’m… also sorry your father wasn’t who you thought he was.”

“No,” he answers quietly. “He hated my mother, and sent me away to the Free Marches in a glorified exile because he preferred my brother. I should have put it together a long time ago.”

I don’t know what to say, but he doesn’t seem to want a response. One polite nod later, he turns to leave, and I take his place leaning against the fence and trying to catch my breath.

I don’t quite manage it until a short while later, when a voice whispers my name and then a familiar pair of arms circle my waist from behind. Alistair’s chin rests on top of my head and I lean back against him with a sigh. I’ll work out what to tell him about all of this later; for now, I just hold onto his forearms like they’re the only thing tethering me to the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because of course Emile immediately met with Nathaniel and Velanna once Alistair was out of sight. What did you think he sent them with him for, after all? ;)
> 
> Also, I really love you guys and all your feedback and support. I might not have made it this far without you! <3


	29. Signet

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for this chapter - for the long wait, for the short length, and for what I'm pretty sure is its decreased update quality in general. I've had some surprises come up in my life at the moment that have been very distracting and it's been difficult for me to find focus to write, but after almost an entire month, I just had to turn out something. If I reread it later and it's too terrible, I'll just make some amendments then. For now, I just needed to get it OUT.
> 
> It's a transitory chapter and that makes it harder, but hopefully it doesn't disappoint too much. Hopefully after next Thursday, I'll have the peace of mind necessary to do proper justice to the next chapter. :)

Aside from morning drills, the rest of Nalissa’s days are free, and except for a couple of short missions that thankfully don’t keep me away overnight again, so are mine. It’s a strange thing, both to feel safe here and not to be burdened by all the responsibilities of being a king. I could almost fall into the routine, embrace a life as a Grey Warden again, and forget the weight of the crown.

Almost. The longer time stretches on without any word from the Crows or Zevran, the more restless I become. It’s a fine thing, being a Warden during a Blight when there are real threats and important things needing doing, but this? I feel useless just putting on the armor and not acting the part. It reminds me of being sent away to the Tower of Ishal when any actual, critical missions are immediately handed off to others. Just another virtue of my father’s blood, I suppose.

I eventually find myself thinking more than once that if assassins can’t find us here, maybe Rial and his masked mage compatriot have given up. Surely it would be just as safe in Denerim. Surely by now, Eamon’s spies have had time to rout out any Crow sympathizers, and it would be nice to feel like I’m making an actual difference again.

What exactly happened to me and when, I wonder, that I find myself actually _missing_ duties I once despised?

If it was just me, I would probably even take the risk and return to the palace. It’s only the fact that it’s Nalissa’s life I would be endangering if I’m wrong that keeps me from doing anything rash in my discontent. So I try my best to keep busy, doing whatever I can to feel useful. I help one of the merchants with a stall in the courtyard resolve an issue with one of her distributors not delivering. I patch a roof for a Warden’s widow, even though I never knew the man. I take Nalissa to see Wade and Herren, and commission a new set of drakeskin armor for her so she doesn’t have to keep wearing Warden blue.

We’ve just returned from collecting the finished set, which is a deeper violet than her last one and custom designed with plenty of hidden pockets for her knives and a light hood that sheds water. It suits her, I think—graceful but subtle, and more than it appears. And more importantly, it will afford some anonymity and keep her safe on the journey back to Denerim, as soon as we’re able to make it.

Then I open the door to our quarters and find myself staring in surprise. As if my train of thought has manifested into reality and summoned him, Zevran Arainai leans against the writing desk, crossing his arms and grinning at us.

“Well, it is about time!” he says haughtily, as if he’s been waiting for us for some time, which I suppose he may have been. I’m still trying to unstick my tongue and find a retort to throw at him when Nalissa moves, and it takes the flash of white steel before I realize with a start that she has never actually seen Zevran’s face before.

“Duck!” I order, because I’m far too late to stop her this time. I hurtle myself between them anyway just as the knife sails past me, and catch her wrist before she can ready another blade. She shoots me a look of startled confusion, and I can hear a thud behind me that I sincerely hope is Zevran hitting the floor in a dodge and not a collapse.

Thankfully, the next thing I hear is a laugh that I take to mean he actually listened to something I said, for once. “My, my! I can see why you like this one, my friend! Beautiful _and_ deadly.”

“Zevran,” I explain quickly before Nalissa can assume I’ve gone suddenly mad and try to attack again anyway. Understanding erases the alarm from her eyes, and as her shoulders un-tense if not quite relax, I slide my hand down to hers and turn. The throwing knife is solidly embedded in the wall just behind where Zevran was standing, and the assassin himself is leaping back to his feet to approach, still grinning.

“You can only be the _infamous_ Nalissa,” he says in what I would probably classify as a flirtatious tone if the same couldn’t be applied to every single word out of Zevran’s mouth. “Zevran Arainai, my lovely lady. A pleasure to finally meet you.”

“Ah. Yes. Sorry about that,” she says, gesturing toward the wall and still seeming a little uncertain. “I wasn’t aware you would be… dropping in.”

“Zev doesn’t exactly send a card ahead of his visits,” I mutter, and the elf in question laughs again.

“What fun is life without a little mystery, yes?”

Nalissa raises an eyebrow and mutters, “The mystery might be what’s behind the Veil if you make a habit of surprise visits to people _expecting_ Antivan assassins.”

“That it might, if everyone had aim like yours,” Zevran compliments her. “I can see why you’ve given Rial and his team such trouble.”

I can’t quite tell whether that’s meant to say the trouble is over or not, so not being one to beat around the bush, I ask. “Does that mean we’re done dealing with them, then?”

It comes out hopeful, but Zevran crushes it with a downturn of his lips and a shake of his head. “Unfortunately not. Between the three of us, we managed to dispatch all of Rial’s original group except the man himself him and that lovely but deadly mage. But it seems whoever paid for your life has a great deal of coin at their disposal. The Crows have sent reinforcements.”

Nalissa swears a streak that would make a sailor blush, and Zevran manages to look both surprised and oddly impressed. I glance between them for a moment, waiting for someone to say _something_ , because I don’t have a plan for continued reinforcements from the Crows but surely one of them does. When none seems to be forthcoming, I settle my frown on Zevran and ask, “Then what do we do?”

“Run,” Nalissa decides at once, and though her eyes focus somewhere far away, she speaks too certainly for me to believe she’s only thinking of this plan now. “Slip out in disguise, with a merchant caravan. Or stow away on a trade ship. If we can find one willing to risk the Storm Coast, my uncle will help us. I look more Mac Eanraig than Cousland; it should work, if we can make it there.”

I suppose I should be comforted that she at least says “we,” this time. The idea of her trying to slip away as I slept again would have made me too afraid to sleep again. It was bad enough before, but now—now that she knows that I love her, that I would sooner walk unarmed into the Deep Roads than return to Denerim without her, the thought would drive me mad.

But still it isn’t comforting that her first thought is to run. If there’s anywhere in Thedas that’s safe from assassins, it would have to be here. I look to Zevran as I say so aloud, hoping he will laugh and tell her her plan is unnecessary, but the frown lines creasing his face don’t fade.

“This new batch is not so dim as to spread themselves thin enough to give me a clean opening,” Zevran says in a tone that's almost bitter. “Rial has learned, it would seem. It is only a matter of time before one of them finds a way inside.”

“Impossible,” I assure him. “Nalissa is the only one one inside this keep that hasn’t taken the Joining. The only merchants allowed through the portcullis are well known and impossible to impersonate. We would know if anyone tried to sneak in.”

“Ah, but did you know I had sneaked in?” Zevran counters, and I open my mouth to speak but close it again immediately. He has a point. The weakness of Grey Warden senses is that we can _only_ pick out each other, _only_ identify outsiders by sight and the process of elimination.

“How _did_ you get in?” Nalissa asks suspiciously, and Zevran gives a sheepish grin.

“Normally I would say it is a trade secret, but I could not allow you to worry your pretty head about gaps in security. Oghren… _escorted_ me in.”

“Escorted? What, he marched you through the front door?” she asks doubtfully, and Zevran gives a little cough that I’m sure he means to be discreet.

“Yes, in fact. Though it may have been inside an empty wine cask.”

Nalissa snickers, but though yes, it does make for a _hilarious_ mental picture, it also proves my point. “Aha! See, even you needed help to get in. From a _Warden_. None of the other Wardens are going to help an assassin—er, no offense. So clearly we’re still safe here.”

“Clearly, you are not,” Zevran says, waving a sealed envelope in my face with a frown. “Just because they cannot get inside does not mean they have no way to reach you. Here, have a look at what I found on your desk when I arrived.”

I take the missive and frown at it, unsure of the point he’s trying to make. “Yes? It’s addressed to Nalissa, so that means someone knows where she is, right?”

“Not quite incorrect, but also not quite the problem,” Zev says, shaking his head. “It is a trap, and a rather devious one. A Crow specialty, if you will. Upon breaking the seal, a tiny blade hidden within will cut the hand of its victim, administering an extremely potent poison—”

“Let me see that,” Nalissa says sharply, making a sudden lunge for the envelope. Much to my surprise, Zevran snatches it away before she can.

“Do you _wish_ to die? I just told you—”

“I heard your warning, now _let me see the seal_!” Nalissa is positively snarling, and I realize with a start that she looks angrier than I’ve ever seen her.

“It is a _trap_ ,” Zev emphasizes again, but under her threatening gaze, he flips the envelope around so she can view the wax insignia.

“That fucking bastard,” she whispers, but the anger in her voice is suddenly overshadowed by something else. It’s a shade of fear, I realize, and a moment spent examining the letter more closely is all I need to tell me why.

The seal meant to entice her into opening it without question is the crest of Highever. I know of only two people alive bearing rings with that seal, and Nalissa still wears hers on a chain around her neck.

“They want a fight, I’ll give them one,” she snaps, and before I can do more than reach for her hand again, she’s spun on her heel and marched out the door like she means to hunt down a troupe of assassins all on her own.

Right now, I think with alarm, she probably does.

* * *

“Lady Cousland!” a Warden greets me at the head of the stairs, right before he visibly recoils when I come close. Probably at the look on my face, but I don’t have the time or the will to spend arranging my expression to a more pleasing one.

“I need to see the Warden-Commander. Now.”

“Er—what do you—”

“Don’t play dumb, Aldin; it doesn’t suit you” I warn, putting as much restraint as I can into not sounding like a potentially murderous lunatic, even if right now, I might just be on the edge of that. “I spent an entire summer here once when Vigil’s Keep still belonged to the Howes. I know where the arl’s chambers are, and I need to see the arl.”

Aldin hesitates, thumbing the pommel of his sword thoughtfully. “Is the Warden-Commander expecting you?”

“I have an open invitation,” I lie, but of course the poor boy isn’t expecting me to lie to him, so he sighs in relief.

“Of course, my lady, of course. Silly of me not to—yes, go on in.”

He opens the door and gives a full Fereldan salute as I pass, but I barely notice. Walking into what had once been Rendon Howe’s study is… disconcerting, to say the least. Most of the furnishings have changed, including the desk itself, but the drapery is still the same plush velvet that I remember.

I shut the door behind me quickly, before I can change my mind and try to leave. And also before Aldin can lock eyes with the Warden-Commander and realize I don’t have permission to be here at all.

Caron has his back turned, working with something on a low table near the fireplace, and when he looks up it’s with an expression of surprise and a tumbler of what’s likely some fancy Orlesian liqueur in one hand.

“Wh—Lady Cousland, what _in the Void_ are you doing in my office?”

His shock is quickly turning toward the self-important puffing of his chest that I suddenly realize might be as much a defense mechanism as anything else. Curious—or it would be, if I had time to think on exactly why _that_ might be.

“I need an escort,” I tell him firmly, crossing my arms and squaring my stance. I present myself as the teyrn’s daughter he likely expects me to have been, like a woman unused to being told no. Not that my mother in particular ever had difficulty denying me anything outlandish or unnecessary or even especially unladylike, but there’s no way for him to know that.

“A what?” he asks, blinking quickly. It seems the brashness of my request has stunned him. Good.

“An escort. A trustworthy unit to help me make it to Highever in one piece. And to fight a dispatchment of Antivan Crows, if necessary.”

I expect nothing of the kind, of course; I know well how negotiating works. Ask first for the moons, my father used to say, and they will think a single star a bargain.

Caron snorts at me, then raises his glass in my direction. “Just how many of these have you had already this evening?”

“I’m not drunk, and I’m quite serious. Don’t pretend Wynne or Oghren or _someone_ hasn’t told you by now why I was unconscious when Alistair first brought me here. No lord is so short on knowledge in his own keep.”

This time, his dark eyebrows rise but his expression spells something close to amusement. “A lord now, am I? My, but you want something important to call me that. Want to tell me what it really is?”

I can feel my teeth clenching, and have to work to soften the expression. Apparently it isn’t only in a sparring arena that he can read me much more clearly than I’m used to, and that’s a very frustrating thing to have to deal with right now.

“I received a letter today marked with the seal of Highever.”

“Interesting, seeing as we’ve received no runners from the west, but do go on.”

“It was another attempt on my life. A trap set to poison me if I opened it. Obviously, my brother doesn’t want me dead—”

“Felicitations; he sounds like a much friendlier fellow than mine.”

I try to pin him down with a glare, but he only laughs at my attempt. “My lady, I was a half Fereldan bastard in the Orlesian court. You shall have to work harder than that to force me into silence.”

“Then perhaps I should inform you that this—” I fish the chain and attached ring from the neck of my shirt to accentuate my point, “is one of only two Cousland crest rings still in existence. Meaning the Crows sealed a letter to me with the signet ring of the teyrn of Highever.”

Caron takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes wandering up to the vaulted ceiling. When he looks back to me with a sigh, his expression has at least turned more serious. “That is… problematic. But a concern your betrothed should be better suited to address, is it not? A Grey Warden army could not be sent to storm castle Cousland, but a Fereldan one certainly could.”

“No,” I object, firmly and instantly. “If they have Fergus hostage, they would kill him if they were cornered. So they can’t know they’re cornered.”

“So you’re asking, not for a party to escort you as requested, but a… routine dispatch of a caravan to Highever. A place for you to hide along the way.”

I hesitate, certain from the tone of his voice that the answer will be no, but what choice do I have but to play along? “That would suffice.”

Caron puts down his half-empty glass on the desk and crosses his arms to look across it at me. “Have you any other proof, besides the seal on this letter, that your brother is compromised?”

That gives me pause. “I… suppose not.”

“And you say it was meant to kill you, yes? So why would they go to the trouble of keeping your brother hostage at all, if they expected you dead already?”

“A back-up plan, obviously. They’ve failed to kill me at least twice already. They won’t be _surprised_ by a third.”

Caron strokes his goatee in what seems to be a habit when he’s considering something. I take some heart in the fact that he’s at least _considering_ it.

“And you’re quite certain the teyrn isn’t simply the one that hired these assassins?”

I stiffen, and a scoff passes my lips before I can stop it. “Very. Whoever paid the Crows did it when I was promised to the king. Fergus was one of the parties arranging that. Besides which, _he’s my brother_.”

“That must mean something different in Ferelden,” Caron says dryly. “I have three brothers, and not a one wouldn’t trade my life for political advancement.”

“Then I pity you what family means in Orlais.”

Caron hums something noncommittal, then picks up the glass again to swirl the liquid within and stare into it as he does. Finally, he decides, “I will not authorize any deployment to Highever.”

Internally, I curse this stubborn and self-centered Orlesian to the depths of the Void. Externally, I bite my tongue and dig my nails into my forearms. Fine, then. I will find another way.

“I _will_ , however, send a dispatch,” Caron says suddenly, interrupting my thoughts, “A single runner to the teyrn with a request for recruitment. One who you will _not_ accompany, but who is trained in espionage. He will determine whether the teyrn is actually in danger, or if this is only a ploy to drive you out into the open.”

For a moment, I don’t know what to say. I hadn’t even considered that but Caron has a point. Maybe the seal wasn’t chosen just to get me to open the letter. Maybe it _was_ a different kind of back-up plan, to ensure I rushed to my brother’s aid if the letter trap failed.

A cold chill creeps down my spine though as I wonder, but what if it wasn’t?

“A fast runner,” I emphasize, but it’s an acquiescence and we both know it. At this point, I will take whatever I can get, and pray that it means news of my brother’s safety. At least Alistair will be happy to hear that we’re waiting it out in the keep.

For now.


End file.
